qfiheSands 

dances  Everard 


3H-^  E 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    SANDS 


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A  Daughter  of  the  Sands 

A  NOVEL  :.'  ::  ::  By 

FRANCES    EVERARD 


NEW    YORK:    DODD,    MEAD    &    COMPANY 

19  22 


OOPTEIOHT,  1922. 

By  DODD,  mead  AND  COMPANY,  Iwa 


PBINTED    IN    XT.    a.   ▲. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I    Saada 1 

II    The   Decision 13 

III  The  Man  of  Dreams 27 

IV  The  Shadow 49 

V    Whispering  Devils 60 

VI    Destiny 67 

VII    Sheikh  Medene 77 

VIII    A  Heritage  of  Blood 98 

IX    El  Bouira 113 

X    The  Man  Who  Understood 123 

XI    The  Sacred  Circle 143 

XII  The  Secret  of  Long-Dead  Years      .     .  172 

XIII  The  Cablegram 184 

XIV  The  Sale  of  a  Woman's  Heart  .     .     .203 
XV    The  Man  Who  Won  . 220 

XVI    Separation 240 

XVII    The  Man  Between 261 

XVIII    Muhammed  Bey :.     .     .  280 

XIX  Great   Possessions    .     .     .     ......     .  287 

XX    God's  Gift ^    ...  300 


2135400 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    SANDS 


A   DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
SANDS 


CHAPTER  I 

SAADA 

JEANS,  the  Railsfords'  odd  man,  and  last  of 
a  once  considerable  retinue  of  servants,  was 
just  bringing  the  trap  into  the  drive,  when 
Lance  Railsford  called  him. 

"I  don't  think  Miss  Medene  will  drive  to  the 
station,  after  all,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  open 
letter  in  his  hand.  "We  shall  probably  walk  by 
the  fields  as  far  as  Whitcombe,  so  if  you  take  the 
luggage  and  pick  us  up  at  Hugglecote  .  .  .  Wait  a 
moment,  though — we'd  better  hear  what  Miss 
Medene  has  to  say." 

"As  you  wish,  sir."  Jeans  led  the  mare  towards 
the  house.  "But  the  young  lady  will  miss  the 
early  London  train,  for  sure,  and " 

The  girl  herself  was  waiting  by  the  stone  balus- 

trading  which  edged  the  tiny  terrace,  for  Redlands, 

the  Railsfords'  pretty  home,  was  quite  an  estate  in 

miniature,  with  its  shrubbed  paths,  well-kept  lawns, 

and    tastefully-laid-out    flower-beds.    Above    the 

1 


2  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

ceaseless  murmur  of  the  trees  on  the  hill  she  had 
heard  neither  Jeans'  nor  Lance's  approach;  her 
dark  eyes  were  turned  wistfully  on  the  mist- 
wreathed  valley  backed  by  the  jagged  line  of  the 
distant  Welsh  mountains,  and  her  thoughts  were 
far  away. 

She  turned,  however,  as  Lance  hailed  her,  and 
stooped  to  lift  the  small  dressing-case  at  her  feet. 

"Is  Jeans  ready?  I  was  getting  a  little  anxious 
about  the  time,"  glancing  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist. 
"The  train  leaves  Gloucester  at  8,10,  and  it  won't 
do  to  be  late," 

Railsford  smilingly  relieved  her  of  the  luggage. 
"Oh,  bother  the  office,  and*  what  the  others  may 
say!"  he  returned  good-naturedly,  "You're  going 
by  the  ten  o'clock.  Jeans  will  pick  us  up  at 
Hugglecote.  The  post  is  in — early  for  once — 
and  this  letter — well',  it  just  alters  everything. 
You  haven't  seen  mother?" 

Saada  Medene  shook  a  wealth  of  raven-black 
hair.  "She  isn't  down  yet.  It  is  still  very  early — 
only  half:past  seven.  But  I  thanked  her  last  night, 
and  said  how  much  I  had  enjoyed  the  week-end.  It 
is  very  kind  of  her.  Lance,  to  let  me  come  so  often ; 
but  over  breakfast  I  made  up  my  mind  .  .  .  this 
must  be  the  very  last  time." 

He  eyed  her  amusedly  as  she  swung  down  the 
drive  in  the  wake  of  the  departing  trap.  Then  he 
stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  and  watched  her 
beautiful,  troubled  face  over  the  flicker  of  flame  in 
his  cupped  hands. 


SAADA  3 

"Saada,  you're  still  turning  over  all  we  discussed 
last  night  .  .  .  telling  yourself  that  because  you're 
my  secretary  it's  not  good  for  the  discipline  of  the 
London  office  that  you  should  be  here.  It's  all 
nonsense,  Saada :  surely  a  man  can  have  with  him 
the  girl  he  loves,  and  as  to  what  the  rest  may 
think '» 


"Lance !"  She  regarded  him  steadily,  her  lips  sud- 
denly firm.  I'm  going  to  give  you  my  answer  now. 
Last  night  you  asked  me  to  marry  you.  I  almost 
gave  in.  For  hours  I  lay  awake,  turning  each 
point  over.  I've  decided  ...  it  would  be — an — 
an  appalling  mistake." 

For  one  usually  so  impetuous,  he  took  the 
decision — if  decision  it  were — ^very  calmly.  Some- 
how, he  felt,  the  letter,  which  as  yet  he  had  not 
shown  her,  would  make  all  the  difference  to  her 
final  decision. 

"An  appalling  mistake — to  marry  the  man  who 
worships  you,  and  whom  you  love!  You'll  con- 
cede that,  dear;  you  do  love  me?" 

They  had  turned  into  the  wide  road,  a  silver 
ribbon  against  the  green  shoulder  of  the  hill.  Be- 
low them,  emerald  fields  -of  lush  grass  powdered 
with  moon-daises  stretched  to  the  rose-clustered 
walls  of  Whitcombe  with  the  stately  spires  and 
towers  of  Gloucester  gilded  by  the  early  morning 
sun  beyond. 

Saada  Medene  set  her  hands  on  the  stone  wall 
behind  her,  and  faced  Lance  Railsford  gravely. 

"I  suppose  I  love  you,  Lance  .  .  .  though  I'm 


4  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

not  quite  sure,  because,  you  see" — with  a  sad  little 
shake  of  her  head — "I've  never  really  known  what 
it  is  to  love  any  man  .  .  .  except,  of  course,  my 
own  father.  You've  been  ever  so  kind  .  .  .  and 
very  generous,  too,  since  that  day — when  .  .  . 
when,  without  a  friend  in  London,  without  any- 
thing but  a  knowledge  of  languages,  I  asked  you  to 
find  me  something  to  do.  Since  then. .  .  .  well ! 
you  know  what's  happened.  You  have  learned  to 
care,  and — perhaps  I  care,  too.  But  I'm  certain, 
if  ever  you  married  me,  you'd  very  soon  regret." 

"And  why  should  I  regret,  sweetheart?"  he  re- 
peated, taking  from  her  long  slender  fingers  the 
flower  with  which  she  was  toying,  and  tossing  it  to 
the  ground. 

The  girl's  head  was  lowered,  and  the  wide- 
brimmed  hat  hid  her  eyes,  deeply  shadowed.  "I've 
already  told  you,  Lance  .  .  .  because  of  my  race 
and  blood.  I'm  a  coloured  girl,  really — though, 
except  for  my  name,  few  would  ever  guess  so. 
Still,  the  fact  remains,  my  father  is  an  Arab  .  .  . 
oh,"  looking  up  suddenly,  her  face  exquisitely 
flushed  by  the  passion  in  her  voice,  "I'm  not 
ashamed!  My  mother — well-,  she  may  have  been 
European  ...  I  do  not  know,  but  in  any  case, 
you  would  have  a  girl  of  colour  for  your  wife." 

His  fingers  reached  out  and  lingered  on  hers 
caressingly. 

"As  if  I  care,  darling !  Aren't  you'  all  the  world 
to  me?  What  does  race  matter?  Isn't  an  Arab 
as  highly  bom  as  any  English  man  or  woman? 


SAADA  5 

Weren't  your  people  noble — ^your  father  a  sheikh, 
a  man  highly  honoured?  And  you — ^you  have  all 
the  instincts  and  feelings  of  a  white  girl.'' 

Saada  smiled  even*  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"My  dear,  eight  years  in  French  and  English 
schools  haven't  changed  the  colour  of  my  blood.  I 
am,  and  always  shall  be — an  Arab  girl." 

"Yet  your  face  is  fair,  your  skin  as  white  as — ^my 
mother's." 

"That  is  nothing,"  she  said  resolutely.  "There 
are  scores  of  white  Arabs  in  Northern  Africa,  row- 
mis,  we  call  them,  because  of  their  partial  Roman 
ancestry.  For  a  generation,  here  and  there,  the 
white  strain  is  uppermost:  I  sometimes  feel  it  is 
uppermost  in  me.  Apart  from  my  dark  eyes  and 
hair,  I  am,  as  you  say,  as  fair  as  any  English 
girl.    Yet  the  Arab  blood  remains ^" 

"You  believe  that  makes  any  difference?"  he 
questioned  with  swift  vehemence. 

"To  you — now?  Perhaps  not.  But  to  others 
.  .  .  yes.  Let  me  tell  you.  I  have  worked  in 
your  office.  Lance,  for  tv/o  years.  I  haven't  a 
friend,  except  you.  Why?  Because  I  made  no 
secret  of  my  birth  or  parentage.  I  admitted  quite 
frankly  that  I  was  an  Arab,  my  father  Sheikh  Me- 
dene,  and  my  home  in  Tunis.  You  don't  realize 
what  a  barrier  the  colour-streak  forms.  Because 
of  my  people,  I  am  an  outcast " 

"Don't,  Saada,  don't !"  His  fingers  pressed  upon 
iier  lips.     The  girl  drew  them  away. 

"It  is  true.    Every  one  in  the  office  looks  down 


6  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

on  me :  they  don't  like  working  beside  me.  I  had 
resolved — when  I  was  asked  to  Redlands  this  week- 
end, that  it  should  be  for  the  last  time." 

He  nodded,  but  his  voice  had  taken  a  masterful 
tone. 

"Yes !  For  the  last  time,  dear :  because  you  are 
going  to  marry  me.  I  won't  hear  any  more  ex- 
cuses. You  know  you  care  for  me :  you  can't  look  up 
and  say  you  don't  love  me." 

Her  lips  began  to  quiver. 

"I  can't !  I  can't !  I  do  care — ever  so  much,  and 
that  is  why  I  want  to  go  away  .  .  .  and  never  .  .  . 
never  see  you  again" 

"Listen !"  He  held  her  wrists  and  drew  her  arms 
to  her  sides.  "There  is  no  one  in  the  world  you 
care  for  so  much  as  you  do  for  me?" 

"No  one  — except  my  father." 

"And  you  think  you  could  be  happy  with  me?" 

"Were  I  of  your  race  and  colour — ^yes." 

"Surely  the  risk  is  mine?" 

"The  risk  is  too  great — here,  in  England." 

"Wait.  If  some  of  the  people  you  have  met  look 
down  on  you,  it  is  because  you  are  poor  and  un- 
protected— the  way  of  the  strong  with  the  weak. 
But  as  my  wife " 

"We  should  never  be  happy  in  England,  Lance. 
An  Englishman  with  a  native  wife  is  always  an 
object  of  scorn." 

"But  in  her  own  country?" 

"Ah,  then  it  would  be  different!" 


SAADA  7 

^^Exactly.  You  could  be  happy  with  me  in 
Africa?" 

"I — I  think  so/'  she  answered  tremulously. 
"Both  you  and  your  mother  have  been  so  very 
kind " 

"My  mother  thinks  always  of  me,  Saada." 

"She  would  never  consent  to  your  marrying  an 
Arab  girl." 

Lance  Railsford  smiled  as  he  unfolded  the  letter, 

"On  that  score — trust  me.  Saada,  I  am  off  to 
Tunisia." 

Her  eyes  grew  suddenly  round. 

"To  Tunisia?    Oh,  how  wonderful!" 

"It  is  wonderful,"  he  said  gaily.  "You  remember 
Curzon  sent  for  me  a  fortnight  ago?  I  was  asked 
then  if  I  would  take  a  post  in  North  Africa.  Now 
I've  been  offered  one — resident  vice-consul  at  El 
Bouira — a  growing  frontier  town.  I  want  to  take 
it  because  the  salary  is  good.  I  shall  go  only  on 
one  condition." 

"Yes,  Lance?"    her  voice  falling  to  a  whisper. 

"That  you  promise  to  marry  me.  We  shall  be 
intensely  happy  out  there  under  the  sunny  sky  of 
Africa  .  .  .  and  no  one  will  bother  whether  you 
have  Western  or  Eastern  blood  in  your  veins.  Be- 
sides, what  does  it  matter?  .  .  .  You  will  have  me, 
and  my  love  .  .  .  always.     Saada,  will  you  come?" 

For  an  instant  she  continued  to  look  down,  with 
her  sweet  mouth  a-quiver,  her  lovely  face  sadly 
troubled.     But  the  heart  in  her  cried  out  for  the 


8  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

deep,  full  measure  of  a  man's  love.  She  raised 
her  head. 

"Yes,  Lance,"  she  said  shyly.  "If  you  want  me, 
I  will  come." 

An  hour  later  Railsford  was  walking  the  odd 
five  miles  back  to  his  mother's  home  on  Birdlip 
Hill.  He  felt  supremely  happy  and  not  a  little 
elated  with  his  victory.  Indeed,  any  man  might 
have  felt  proud  of  such  a  conquest.  Saada  Medene 
was  superbly  beautiful.  Perhaps  he  was  in  love 
only  with  her  physical  loveliness :  that  is  the  thing 
for  which  most  young  men,  with  a  narrow  ex- 
perience of  life,  love  women.  If  deeper  and  more 
reverent  emotions  were  lacking,  Lance  did  not 
realize  it;  always  a  creature  of  impulse  and  tem- 
perament, having  gained  the  point  dearest  and 
nearest  his  heart,  he  was  satisfied. 

He  broke  into  the  drive  whistling  a  love-song. 
At  last,  it  seemed,  the  Railsford  star  might  rise 
again.  There  had  been  a  time,  long  since,  when 
this  Golden  Valley  of  smiling  land  and  prosperous 
homesteads  had  stretched  under  Railsford  rule  from 
far-off  Stroud  to  the  fringes  of  the  Malvern 
Hills.  But  time  had  stripped  them  of  one  rich 
possession  after  another,  leaving  the  last  of  the 
line  with  only  a  small  house,  a  peevishly  discon- 
tented mother  to  keep,  and  a  post  in  the  Foreign 
Office  at  six  hundred  a  year. 

He  was  in  no  mood  for  regrets,  as  he  crossed 
the  tidy  lawn  towards  the  big  cedar  beneath  which 
his  mother  sat.     She  saw  by  the  smile  on  his  good- 


SAADA  9 

looking,  sunburned  face  that  something  eventful 
had  happened,  and  so  far  forgot  her  habitual  gloom 
as  to  relax  the  fretful  lines  of  her  mouth. 

''Well,  dear!  What  has  induced  you  to  take  a 
day  off?"  she  asked,  setting  down  her  needlework. 
"Why  haven't  you  returned  to  town  with  Miss 
Medene?" 

Lance  drooped  on  to  the  grass  and  linked  his 
hands  about  his  hunched-up  knees. 

"Saada's  gone  back  to  square  things  up  at  the 
olfice.  I  shall  say  good-bye  to  London  at  the  end 
of  a  week.  I've  just  heard  from  the  Foreign 
Secretary." 

"A  new  appointment — at  last?" 

"H'm,"  balancing  his  hat  on  one  knee  and  slowly 
rocking  his  big  form  to  and  fro.  "Something  good 
this  time.     We're  going  abroad." 

"Oh !  Where?  I  hope  it  won't  be  a  horrid,  out- 
of-the-way  place.  You  know,  Lance,  I  never  could 
exist  without  my  creature  comforts." 

Eailsford  laughed,  not  unfeelingly. 

"My  dear  mater,  creature  comforts,  as  you  call 
them,  would  soon  have  been  at  a  premium  if  this 
hadn't  come  along.  Six  hundred  won't  keep  Red- 
lands  going  any  longer,  and " 

"You  ought  to  have  married — a  rich  wife. 
There  was  a  time  when  a  Railsford " 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  good-humouredly.  "Things 
are  going  to  look  up  from  now  on.  We  couldn't 
have  stayed  here,  anyway,  with  debts  hedging  us  in 
all  round.     Redlands  must  have  shared  the  fate 


10        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

of  the  Hall  .  .  .  and  then  you'd  have  spent  the 
rest  of  your  days  in  Knightsbridge  or  Kensing- 
ton. As  it  is,  we're  booked  for  Tunisia  .  .  .  and 
Saada  is  coming  with  us." 

The  placid  look  on  Helen  Railsford's  face 
Tanished. 

"Saada?  Whatever  for?  Surely  you  can  do 
without  a  secretary?" 

"I  might  do  without  a  secretary,  because  I  don't 
suppose  the  Foreign  Office  will  let  me  run  to  one, 
but  I — can't  do — without  a  wife." 

^TTou  are  never  dreaming  of  marrying — her?" 

She  sat  up  very  straight,,  the  light  of  battle  in 
her  cold  blue  eyes. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  played  about  the  young 
man's  mouth. 

"I  am.  Saada  and  I  became  engaged — this 
morning.  We  arranged  everything  on  the  way  into 
Gloucester.  Curzon  has  given  me  the  vice-consul- 
ship at  El  Bouira.  Saada  will  come  out  with  us, 
at  any  rate  as  far  aa  Tunis,  where,  of  course,  she 
would  put  in  some  time  with  her  father " 

"Lance,  you  must  be  mad."  The  blank  astonish- 
ment had  not  yet  subsided. 

"I  am  mad — madly  in  love  with  her.  I  always 
have  been — ever  since  she  first  came  into  my  office. 
You've  known  it  all  along,  surely?" 

Helen  Railsford  looked  away. 

"I  never  dreamed  you'd  be  such  a  fool.  I  knew 
Saada  was  useful  to  you,  that  her  knowledge  of 
Eastern  languages  had  helped  you  in  your  work." 


SAADA  11 

"To  the  extent  of  getting  me  one  of  the  plums 
of  the  Service,"  Lance  admitted  with  unusual  can- 
dour. "I  should  never  have  got  El  Bouira  but  for 
Saada.     Our  engagement  was  inevitable." 

"To  a  coloured  woman !  It's  monstrous.  You'll 
be  a  byword  among  all  decent  people." 

He  laughed  a  trifle  uneasily. 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  as  bad  as  that.  Saada  isn't 
black.  You  couldn't  tell  her  from  an  English  girl, 
except  that  her  hair  and  eyes  are  dark.  Besides, 
the  Arabs  are  highly  civilized — at  least  the  well- 
to-do  classes  are — and  there's  no  one  better  born 
in  all  Tunisia.     Her  father  is  a  sheikh " 

"Without  means;  now  living  in  a  derelict  palace 
in  Tunis.  Well,  I,  for  one,  don't  agree."  She 
began  to  gather  up  her  work.  "If  you  choose  to 
throw  yourself  away,  when  by  waiting  you  might 
have  had  every  girl  in  the  country  at  your  feet " 

"W^aiting  for  what?"  he  asked,  a  contemptuous 
sneer  on  his  handsome  face. 

She  swept  the  balls  of  cotton  into  her  lap. 

"Your  uncle's  death.  He's  on  his  last  legs  al- 
ready. Who  besides  ourselves  can  he  leave  his 
money  to?" 

Lance  took  out  his  case  and  tapped  a  ciga- 
rette on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Well,  considering  that  you  and  he  are  bitter 
enemies,  and  he  hasn't  allowed  me  near  him  since  I 
left  school,  I  don't  see  that  his  phantasmal  three- 
quarters  of  a  million  is  worth  bothering  about. 
No,  mother,  you  won't  move  me.     Saada  is  more  to 


12        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

me  than  a  very  unlikely  inheritance.  I  want  to  get 
married;  I've  found  the  girl  I  love;  she  cares  for 
me,  so  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Redlands  must 
have  been  ^ven  up  in  any  case ;  at  El  Bouira  I  shall 
have  fifteen  hundred  a  year — ^more  than  enough  to 
keep  you  and  a  wife  in  comfort.  We'll  make  a 
holiday  of  the  trip  across  the  desert " 

Mrs.  Railsford  emitted  a  sigh  in  which  discon- 
tent, scorn,  and  surrender  were  equally  commin- 
gled. 

"I  suppose  I've  nio  alternative.  But  you  know 
my  views  .  .  .  marriage  to  a  girl  with  the  colour- 
streak  means  social  extinction.  You  might  have 
waited  ...  to  see  if  Uncle  Hugh  relents.  There's 
Norwiches  and  several  hundreds  of  thousands  for 
some  one  .  .  .  some  day." 

"It's  the  *some  day'  which  decides  me !"  laughed 
Lance.     "I  prefer  to  take  my  happiness  now." 

Mrs.  Railsford,  looking  inexpressibly  grim,  be- 
gan to  move  towards  the  house. 

"I  can't  help  saying  you're  a  fool,  my  dear.  Yon 
might  have  had  one  of  the  finest  seats  in  England, 
a*  position  in  society,  a  wife  from  the  station  to 
which  you  belong.  Instead,  you  chose — an  Arab 
girl.  Mark  my  words.  Lance— ^you'll  live  to  regret 
it." 

For  an  instant  he  turned  his  mother's  last  phrase 
over  in  his  mind.  It  was  rather  curious:  they 
were  almost  the  exact  word^  Saada  herself  had 
used.  But,  with  youth,  passion  has  often  the 
easting  vote.  He  tossed  the  haJf-smoked  cigarette 
away  and  followed  his  mother  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  U 

THE  DECISION 

SAADA  was  quite  happy  in  her  engagement. 
To  Lance  she  felt  that  she  owed  all  that  had 
come  into  her  chequered  life  since  the  finan- 
cial ruin  of  her  father  had  taken  her  from  an  ex- 
pensive English  school  and  thrown  her,  friendless 
yet  full  of  courage,  on  a  curiously  hostile  world. 

It  would  have  been  quite  easy  to  return  to  Tunis, 
to  the  shelter  of  Sheikh  Medene's  house.  At  first 
Saada  had  been  tempted  to  go;  she  felt  for  the 
aged  man,  who  had  always  shown  her  both  a 
mother's  and  a  father's  care,  an  affection  which 
mounted  to  a  passionate  adoration.  Yet  it  was 
this  very  devotion  which  kept  her  in  England. 
From  a  servant  of  the  once  noble  house  of  Medene 
she  had  learned  of  her  father's  great  poverty  and' 
of  the  secret  struggle  he  had  long  kept  up  to  main- 
tain her  education.  This  decided  Saada;  from 
school  she  went  to  London,  and  from  the  first 
found  a  staunch  friend  and  ally  in  Railsford,  who 
had  given  her  employment. 

Ever  since,  week  by  week,  her  hard-earned  sav- 
ings had  gone  to  support  the  broken  old  man  lan- 
guishing amongst  the  decayed  splendours  of  his 

13 


14        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Tunisian  home.  And  now  Saada  herself  was  re- 
turning to  him  with  the  news  of  her  engagement. 

As  she  stood  by  the  deck-rail  of  the  magnificent 
Transatlantique  steamer,  pulsing  steadily  south, 
across  the  blue  waters  to  the  sun-kissed  shcfres  of 
Africa,  she  wondered  what  Sheikh  Medene's  atti- 
tude would  be. 

Always  he  had  shown  a  great  and  respectful  lik- 
ing for  English  people ;  yet,  from  Kairouan  to  Cas- 
ablanca, no  son  of  the  Prophet  was  prouder  of  his 
Arab  blood.  Still,  Saada  had  taken  the  step,  not 
unmindful  of  what  it  would  mean  to  him.  As 
Eailsford's  wife  no  longer  would  he  need  to  bother 
about  her  future ;  rather,  every  penny  that  was  her 
own  would  go  to  care  for  him  in  his  last  days. 

This,  indeed,  was  the  outstanding  feature  of  her 
unselfish  nature,  an  intense  and  loyal  gratitude. 
She  had  shown  it  in  the  complete  surrender  made 
to  Lance's  impetuous  wooing.  Because  he  had 
been  so  good  a  friend,  because  his  home  had  thrown 
wide  its  door  to;  bid  her  enter  in  a  land  alien  and 
unsympathetic  to  her  race,  she  had  willingly  prom- 
ised to  give  the  very  most  that  any  man  could  ask 
of  a  woman. 

As  yet  she  did  not  quite  understand  him.  At 
times  she  doubted  if  he  understood  her.  But  com- 
plete ingenuous  frankness  on  her  side  had  marked 
every  hour  of  the  friendship  which  had  brought  the 
passionate  declaration  of  his  love.  When  Saada 
gave,  it  was  characteristic  of  her  to  give  with  both 
hands — freely,  unselfishly,  without  reserve.     She 


THE  DECISION  15 

wanted  to  love  Lance,  to  hold  back  nothing  that 
might  compensate  him  for  his  devotion. 

His  mother  was  more  of  aji  enigma  to  a  nature  so 
guileless  as  her  own.  There  was  about  Mrs.  Rails- 
ford's  attitude  a  restraint  which,  though  it  scarcely 
bordered  on  hostility,  yet  at  times  suggested  a 
scornful  dissatisfaction.  Saada  knew  that  her 
Arab  blood  was  the  cause,  and  more  than  once,  on 
the  journey  across,  she  discussed  with  Lance  her 
willingness,  for  his  mother's  sake,  to  release  him. 
Lance  however,  stood  firm.  Of  his  own  free  will  he 
had  made  his  choice,  and  no  power  on  earth  would 
shake  him.  He  loved  her  for  her  beauty,  her  sweet- 
ness of  disposition,  her  charm.  Under  the  warmth 
of  his  avowal  the  little  cloud  dispersed,  and  he  was 
perfectly  happy  when  they  arrived  in  Tunis. 

Saada  saw  little  of  her  father,  for  an  early  op- 
portunity offered  to  get  them  comfortably  to  El 
Bouira.  One  of  the  Transatlantique  Company's 
luxurious  Pullman  motors  was  due  to  leave  on  the 
Saturday  following  their  arrival  and  would  take 
them  with  all  their  baggage  as  far  as  Constantine. 

She  spent,  however,  three  days  in  the  once  lux- 
urious Arab  house  in  the  Rue  Sidi  Abdallah,  still 
beautiful  with  its  marble-paved  courtyard  and  pil- 
lared doorways,  yet  stripped  by  the  ruthless  hand 
of  poverty  of  the  many  treasures  which  had 
brought  it  fame. 

Sheikh  Medene,  noble  of  bearing,  with  his  long 
white  beard  and  kindly  face,  and  picturesque  in 
his  loose  flowing  robes,  clung  to  her  tightly  and 


16         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

cried  like  a  child  at  their  parting.  For  all  this,  he 
was  happy;  Saada  had  found  a  good  husband  who 
would  cherish  and  protect  her:  more,  a  man  of 
English  blood.  He  gave  them  both  his  blessing, 
and  returned,  light  of  heart,  to  the  solitude  of  his 
house. 

At  Constantine  the  difficulty  of  procuring  camels 
to  travel  the  rest  of  the  journey  delayed  them ;  they 
put  up  at  the  Company's  hotel  overlooking  the 
rushing  torrent  of  the  Rummell,  and  there  in  the 
care  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Caret  spent  three 
ideally  happy  days. 

Lance  meanwhile  had  pushed  ahead  with  his 
plans.  He  had  heard  of  a  house  at  El  Bouira  which 
could  be  bought  fully  furnished  when  the  present 
tenant  gave  up  a  few  weeks  hence.  There  was  a 
church  too,  at  the  El  Bouira,  where  he  and  Saada 
could  be  married,  and  in  the  interval,  a  comfortable 
hotel  to  receive  his  mother  and  his  fiancee  while  he 
was  up-country  learning  the  details  of  his  official 
duties. 

Saada  had  just  gone  off  to  make  purchases  in 
the  souks  when  the  mail  arrived.  Mrs.  Railsford, 
in  a  fever  of  excitement,  found  Lance  in  the  blazing 
sunshine  of  the  terrace,  settling  terms  with  an  Arab 
camel-owner.  He  turned  and  saw  by  the  unusual 
pallor  of  her  face  that  something  was  wrong. 

"You  must  leave  me  out  of  your  calculations, 
dear,"  she  said.  "I  must  return  at  once  to 
England." 


THE  DECISION  17 

"Oh!"  he  muttered,  turning  on  her  a  look  of 
blank  astonishment.     "What's  happened?" 

She  flopped  into  a  wicker  chair  and  mopped  her 
face. 

"Your  uncle  Hugh  is  dangerously  ill.  This 
cablegram  has  been  forwarded  from  Tunis — asking 
me  to  go  to  him." 

"Of  course  you  will  go,"  he  said  slowly. 

Helen  Railsford's  eyes  were  strangely  bright. 

"I  must  .  .  .  for  both  our  sakes.  Whatever 
happens,  I  for  one  don't  intend  to  run  the  risk  of 
losing  a  fortune.  You  and  Saada  can  go  on  to  El 
Bouira,  and  when  everything  is  over,  one  way  or 
the  other,  I'll  join  you  there." 

Lance  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Saada  ought  to  be  back  long  before  this.  How- 
ever ...  I  suppose  she  will  soon  come." 

An  hour  lengthened  into  two;  the  noon  train 
steamed  eastward  to  Tunis,  taking  Helen  Railsford 
back  to  England,  but  still  Saada  did  not  come. 

Railsford  felt  little  uneasiness  over  Saada's 
absence.  Although  Constantine  is  a  rabble  city,  it 
is  French  garrisoned  and  governed,  well-built  and 
prosperous,  with  spacious  roads  and  wide,  open 
squares.  Of  course,  there  was  an  Arab  town  of 
narrow  streets  with  overhanging  houses,  and 
shadowed  courtyards  filled  with  idle  men,  but  it 
was  hardly  likely  she  would  linger  there  with  so 
much  to  attract  her  in  the  fine  modern  shops  of  the 
Place  de  Nemours. 


18         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Yet,  indeed,  it  was  the  native  quarter,  with  its 
silent-flitting  veiled  women  in  rlilals  of  gauzy  pink 
and  loose  white  dresses,  and  picturesque  huddled 
forms  drowsing  in  a  sea  of  sunshine,  that  delayed 
Saada.  In  the  shop  of  the  armourer  the  previous 
afternoon  she  had  looked  at  a  beautiful  sheathed 
dagger,  richly  damascened  in  silver  and  gold  upon 
the  finest  steel.  Lance  had  loved  it  for  the  sheer 
exquisite  beauty  of  workmanship,  but  the  price  was 
beyond  him. 

So  Saada,  with  her  big  generous  heart,  had 
nursed  a  secret  Before  leaving  Tunis,  Sheikh 
Medene  had  forced  upon  her  a  tiny  silken  bag  of 
gold  coin,  which  through  long  years,  he  said,  had 
been  put  by  to  form  her  wedding  gift.  To  Saada 
had  come  the  sudden  inspiration  to  spend  some  of 
this  money  upon  her  sweetheart;  almost  guiltily 
she  had  stolen  away  back  to  the  souk  of  the  metal- 
workers. Her  mission  over,  the  strange  lure  of 
the  East  came  upon  her  in  those  thronged,  tortuous 
ways  where  men  and  women  of  her  own  flesh  and 
blood  lazed  life  away,  chattering,  sipping  cofifee,  or 
squabbling  among  themselves  over  the  price  of 
a  bargain. 

Often  enough,  through  the  drear,  cold  days  of  an 
English  winter,  she  had  dreamed  of  blue  skies  and 
golden  sunlight,  of  perfumed  air  and  cool  court- 
yards where  the  splash  of  the  fountains  in  marble 
basins  was  the  sweetest  music  in  this  land  of  per- 
petual afternoon. 

She  was  back  again  in  the  world  of  her  childhood 


THE  DECISION  19 

...  in  the  shade  of  cream-washed  walls  painted 
purple  and  red  with  bougainvillea  and  cluster 
roses;  and  beyond,  stately  against  the  turquoise 
blue,  the  square  towers  and  needle-like  mina- 
rets of  the  mosques — the  same  graceful,  slender 
dau"ghter  of  the  East,  yet  changed  by  her  smart 
London  frock  and  French  shoes,  and  the  strange 
Northern  tongue  that  had  become  her  own. 

When  she  stopped  before  the  bazaar  of  Hadji 
Ahmed,  the  seller  of  perfumes,  she  asked  for 
jasmine  and  musk  and  attar  of  roses  in  the 
language  of  the  rhoumi.  Hadji  Ahmed  leered  at 
her  with  his  slumbrous  brown  eyes  and  gave  her 
change  only  for  a  fifty-franc  note. 

Saada's  pretty  nut-brown  cheeks  flamed. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  give  me  the  correct  money," 
she  said  firmly.  "I  handed  you  a  Bank  of  Tunis 
note  for  five  hundred  francs.  My  purchases  come 
to  thirty-five.  You  will  give  me  four  hundred  and 
sixty-five  change,  or  I  fetch  a  gendarme." 

At  this  Ahmed  rose,  and  gathering  the  loose  folds 
of  his  red  silk  ghandourah  around  him,  hobbled  to 
the  back  of  his  shop  and  called  in  a  loud  voice  for 
Halek  his  son.  A  tall  young  fellow,  brown  of  face, 
and  sensuous  of  lip  and  eye,  appeared,  and  after 
hearing  his  father's  story,  approached  Saada  with 
a  coaxing  smile. 

"Indeed,  there  is  no  mistake,  lady,"  he  said, 
twirling  his  string  of  amber  beads  between  his 
fingers.  "We  have  not  taken  so  much  as  five  hun- 
dred francs   this  livelong  day.     Mohammed,  the 


20         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Prophet,  the  Camel  Drirer  and  the  friend  of  the 
poor,  bear  me  witness.  Here  is  all  my  father's 
money :  if  it  pleases  you,  step  inside  and  we  will  go 
through  it  together." 

Saada's  dark  eyes  flashed  as  he  pulled  out  the 
drawer  under  the  counter  upon  which  Hadji 
Ahmed  had  sat  cross-legged  when  the  purchase  was 
made. 

"Indeed  I  will,"  she  said,  following  the  young 
man  briskly.  "And  though  you  give  me  back  my 
money — see,  here  are  your  perfumes,  I  do  not  want 
them— I  shall  still  inform  the  police." 

'*That  would  be  most  unkind  of  the  English 
lady,"  Halek  said,  quietly  closing  the  shop  door. 
^'We  should  prefer  to  give  all  the  money 
back.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  not  English,"  Saada  flashed  back.  "I  am 
Arab,  and  it  is  a  shame  because  you  think  a  girl 
is  English  to  try  to  rob  her." 

The  young  man  bent  nearer,  for  in  the  low-ceil- 
inged  room  hung  with  Persian  and  soft-toned  mats 
from  Khordofan  the  light  was  dim — the  sole  illumi- 
ination  the  yellow  flame  from  the  Moorish  lantern 
hung  from  the  raftered  ceiling.  The  reek  of  a 
scented  cigarette  oppressed  the  close  atmosphere; 
after  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  hot  afternoon, 
Hadji  Ahmed's  little  back  room  seemed  to  Saada 
to  belong  to  a  far-away  world. 

"So  you  are  native  girl,"  purred  Halek,  taking 
the  crimson  rose  from  behind  his  ear  and  holding  it 
caressingly  under  his  thin,  sensitive  nose.     "I  like 


THE  DECISION  21 

native  girl  who  spik  English.  You  are  pretty,  too. 
I  see,"  his  eyes  lighting  with  insolent  admiration 
as  he  looked  her  up  and  down  from  the  wealth  of 
dark  hair  about  her  face  to  the  tips  of  her  dainty 
shoes,  "you  come  from  France  or  London  to  find 
rich  young  man  among  your  own  people?" 

Saada's  small  head  lifted  proudly,  and  eyeing 
him  contemptuously,  she  said, 

"Will  you  please  give  me  the  five-hundred  franc 
note  and  let  me  go.  I  have  to  get  back  to  my 
hotel." 

Halek  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  and  she  could 
not  help  thinking  what  a  fine  figure  he  made  in 
long  silk  robe  and  yellow  turban. 

"I  am  sorry  you  must  wait,"  he  said,  his  soft 
voice  tinged  with  regret.  "See,"  lifting  the  hang- 
ing that  covered  the  middle  glass  door,  "the  shop  is 
closed.  My  father  has  gone  to  drink  coffee  in  the 
house  of  Choaib-el-Salim." 

Saada  picked  up  her  purse. 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  care  to  wait.  I  shall  return 
later — with  the  prefect  of  police.  Please  stand 
aside." 

But  the  tall  young  man  only  smiled,  his  big  form 
interposed  between  her  and  the  door. 

"By  the  Prophet,  I  could  not  let  thee  go  with- 
out one  kiss  from  those  sweet  red  lips,"  he  laughed. 
"Come,  I  will  caress  thee  as  my  sister  .  .  .  jijst 
once,  and  you  shall  go  away." 

For  a  wild  moment  Saada  felt  her  courage 
streaming  from  her  finger-'tips.     A  coldness  ran 


22         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

down  her  spine;  she  essayed  to  speak,  but  her 
tongue  clave  to  her  mouth.  She  tried  to  put  the 
low  ebony  and  nacre-topped  table  with  its  tray  of 
tiny  gilt  coffee-cups  between  herself  and  the 
young  man.  Halek,  however,  merely  laughed,  and 
reaching  out  as  she  cowered  back,  seized  her  slim 
wrist,  and,  though  she  struck  him  smartly  in  the 
face,  his  free  arm  encircled  her  waist. 

He  drew  her  close,  knocking  the  table  to  the 
floor ;  the  little  cups  shattered  musically,  and  above 
the  noise  rose  her  sharp  cry, 

"Oh,  don't !  Don't !  Please  let  me  go." 
The  scent  of  the  crimson  rose,  gripped  between 
his  teeth,  sickened  her  as  he  lowered  his  face,  no 
longer  dusky  brown  but  flaming  brick  red;  the 
rose  dropped  and  petalled  against  her  bosom  .  .  . 
she  screamed,  this  time  with  a  shrillness  that 
pierced  the  curtained  windows  and  broke  upon  the 
quiet  of  the  courtyard  without.  On  the  far  side 
of  the  wall  a  dark,  misshapen  mass  woke  dazedly 
to  life  ...  a  bundle  of  tattered  garments  that  re- 
solved into  the  semblance  of  a  man.  He  rose  stu- 
pidly, rubbing  the  torpor  out  of  eyes  steel-grey  be- 
hind their  mistiness;  the  blinding  light  struck  at 
him  less  fiercely  than  that  cry  for  help  in  his 
mother- tongue.  The  great  arms,  bare  and  brown 
as  the  dust  in  which  he  had  lain,  swung  up  and 
gripped  the  wall;  six  feet  of  wrecked  manhood 
surged  over  the  spiked  top.  He  dropped  with  a 
thud  that  shook  the  breath  from  him,  but  recover- 


THE  DECISION  23 

ing,  swayed  across  the  sunlit  court  and  reeled  like 
a  drunken  man  against  the  door. 

The  woodwork  splintered  beneath  his  great 
weight;  the  cry  reached  out  again,  and,  driving 
his  immense  fist  through  the  panel,  he  snapped 
back  the  catch  and  lumbered  in. 

Against  the  gloom  the  pallor  of  a  girl's  beauti- 
ful but  agonized  face  called  to  him;  there  was  a 
redness  before  his  eyes,  as,  fastening  a  grip  of  iron 
upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  Halek,  son  of  Hadji 
Ahmed,  he  caught  him  up  and  threw  him  far  across 
the  courtyard.  The  scream  of  terror  as  Halek's 
battered  body  rose  drowned  the  sobbing  thanks 
which  Saada,  with  her  small  hands  clinging  to  her 
rescuer's  shoulder,  muttered  against  his  breast. 
She  clung  to  him,  weak  and  trembling;  and  hold- 
ing her  like  a  child  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

In  the  path  of  sunlight  that  streamed  from  over- 
head he  halted,  ^staring  about  him  uneasily,  for 
Halek's  cries  had  drawn  a  full  dozen  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  into  the  court.  They  crowded  about 
him,  hidden  knives  flashing  from  the  sleeves  and 
waistbands  of  flowing  ghandourahs. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  little  lady,"  whispered  the 
big  Englishman,  patting  her  arm.  "We're  in  a 
tight  comer,  but  I  shall  get  you  out.  Take  your 
parcel  and  follow  me." 

Saada  drew  back,  her  frightened  glance  on  the 
throng  moving  towards  the  door.  In  the  struggle 
her  hat  had  fallen  to  the  floor ;  her  dress  was  torn 


24         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

and  her  abundance  of  thick  hair  flowed  loosely 
about  her  shoulders.  To  the  man  she  seemed  ador- 
ably beautiful,  so  beautiful  indeed  .  .  . 

"Quickly !"  he  said,  and  drawing  her  behind  him 
he  pushed  resolutely  forward,  aiming  a  terrific 
blow  at  the  first  to  bar  his  path.  The  crack  of  the 
Arab's  chin  as  he  went  down  turned  Saada  faint; 
she  saw  the  blood  and  bit  her  under-lip  to  keep 
back  a  cry  of  horror. 

The  Englishman  blocked  the  door ;  she  saw  little 
but  the  leer  of  fiendish  faces  and  the  glint  of  long, 
curved  blades :  there  was  a  second  scream  as  Halek 
went  down  again,  his  face  almost  unrecognizeable 
by  the  dreadful  blows  which  her  rescuer  rained 
upon  it ;  then  as  a  knife  gashed  his  arm  from  wrist 
to  elbow  he  slammed  the  door  to,  and  drew  her  to- 
wards the  stairs. 

"Come ;  there's  only  one  chance  to  get  out  alive,'* 
he  muttered.  "In  the  next  street,  across  the  way, 
is  the  house  of  a  friend.     We  may  make  it." 

They  ran  through  a  number  of  low-ceilinged 
rooms  and  by  a  short  ladder  reached  the  roof. 
From  the  parapet  he  leaned  down  and  picked  her  up 
quite  easily.  He  poised  for  the  spring,  jumped 
far  out  and  landed  heavily  on  the  roof  of  the  oppo- 
site house. 

"This  way — ^without  a  sound,"  he  counselled, 
lifting  a  wooden  trap.  "Hark !  The  street  is  fill- 
ing. We  cannot  get  away  here.  You  feel  quite 
safe  with  me?" 

"Quite,"  she  whispered  faintly,  staring  up  at  him 


THE  DECISION  25 

in  the  gloom  of  the  walled  chamber  ...  a  terrible 
figure  in  his  ragged  clothes.  He  set  her  upon  a 
ledge  against  the  wall  and  drew  the  iron  bolt  below 
the  trap.  Then  tearing  a  strip  from  his  tattered 
jacket,  he  endeavoured  to  bind  his  lacerated  arm. 

"Let  me  do  it  for  you,"  she  said,  rising  and  tear- 
ing a  length  from  the  softer  material  of  her  dress. 
"Oh,  they  have  hurt  you  terribly !" 

"It  is  nothing.  One  gets  used  to  blood  in  these 
parts.  I  am  thinking  of  you  .  .  .  how  to  get  you 
out  of  this." 

A  deafening  clamour  filled  the  air.  Natives 
were  flocking  in  from  the  winding  alleys  and  tor- 
tuous side  streets. 

"We  should  find  them  as  thick  as  hornets  if  we 
looked  down  from  the  roof,'-  he  said,  wincing  un- 
der the  pain  as  her  deft  fingers  drew  the  edges  of 
the  wound  together.  "Yes!  Give  me  a  drink — 
but  first  take  some  yourself." 

She  took  a  metal  bowl  from  the  floor  and  held  it 
to  his  quivering  lips.  As  he  dropped  back  on  the 
stone  ledge,  for  the  first  time  she  had  a  sight  of 
his  face  .  .  .  once  handsome  and  finely  formed, 
now  dissipated  and  reckless  looking. 

"What's  in  there?"  he  asked  suddenly,  point- 
ing to  the  long  narrow  parcel  at  her  side. 

"A  dagger,"  slie  replied.  "I  bought  it  in  the 
souk^  as  a  present  for " 

"Give  it  to  me.  We  shall  need  it  if  they  find 
us  here,"  he  said  roughly,  and  tearing  off  the 
wrappings,  threw  them  on  tie   uoor. 


26         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Is  there  no  chance  to  get  away?"  she  asked, 
suddenly  afraid. 

"None  whatever !"  he  returned  with  brutal  frank- 
ness. "You've  got  to  stay  here  with  me  .  .  . 
until  it's  dark.'' 


CHAPTER     ni 

THE   MAN   OF  DREAMS 

SAADA  tried  to  suppress  a  shudder.  The 
fanatical  screeches  and  the  surge  of  feet  on 
the  rough  cobbles  below;  the  sight  of  this 
terrible  figure  with  haggard  and  bearded  face  and 
ill-kempt  clothes  huddled  against  the  stone  wall; 
the  long  absence  from  the  hotel  and  the  dread 
of  not  getting  safely  back  filled  her  with 
terror. 

She  was  not  by  nature  afraid.  Struggling 
against  Halek  alone  she  had  shown  a  fine  courage. 
But  there  was  something  almost  revolting  about 
this  strange  Englishman,  prematurely  old,  wrecked 
by  the  follies  stamped  on  every  line  of  his  once 
handsome  face. 

Now  the  murkiness  had  come  into  his  eyes  again ; 
he  regarded  her  with  a  scornful  smile. 

"Come !  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  curiously  cultured  for  one  so  low  down  in  the 
human  scale.  "Tell  me  what  brings  you,  an  Eng- 
lish girl,  to  an  Arab  house." 

Her  head  lifted. 

"I  am  not  English.  I  am  a  native  girl.  My 
name  is  Saada  Medene,  and " 

"Nonsense,"  he  retorted,  almost  rudely.     "That 

27 


28         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

won't  do  at  all.  You  can't  tell  Forrester  that  tale. 
By  the  by" — draY\'ing  himself  up  quickly — "that's 
not  my  name,  really.  It  belongs  to  a  very  great 
friend — and  I  speak  of  him  so  often,  I  get  into  the 
habit  of  using  it.  You'll  forget,  won't  you;  my 
name's  Williams — John  Williams,  so  remember 
that.  What  were  we  saying?  Oh,  I  know!" 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  forehead  in  an  effort  to 
remember ;  "about  your  being  a  native.  Of  course, 
it's  all  nonsense:  you're  an  English  girl;  I  knew 
.  .  .  directly  I  heard  your  voice.  You'll  excuse 
me,  won't  you;  I  don't  suppose  I  can  offer  one  to 
you?" 

He  took  from  the  belt  about  his  ragged  shirt — the 
latter  was  open  at  the  throat  and  showed  an  ex- 
panse of  broad  chest  and  shoulder  as  burned  and 
sun-tanned  as  the  mud-baked  wall  against  which 
he  rested — a  small  metal  box.  The  lid  flew  back  and 
she  saw  a  number  of  small  black  pellets,  one  of 
which  he  took  between  a  well-shaped  thumb  and 
finger  and  eyed  longingly  before  placing  it  in  his 
mouth.  Then  a  sigli  of  intense  satisfaction  escaped 
him,  and  leaning  his  head  against  the  wall,  he  said 
in  a  more  conciliatory  tone, 

"I'm  glad  to  have  been  able  to  render  you  this 
service.  You  won't  forget  what  I  told  you,  though 
.  .  .  about  my  name.  It's  Williams  .  .  .  not  the 
other  which  I  mentioned.  By  the  way,  what  did  I 
say?" 

"I've  almost  forgotten,"  she  answered  nervously. 


THE  MAN  OF  DKEAMS  29 

At  that  he  laughed. 

"You've  almost  forgotten.  That's  right.  Now 
we  can  talk  as  friends  again.  You'll  forgive  me 
.  .  .  for  taking  these  things,  won't  you?"  Again 
he  opened  the  metal  box.  "One  has  to,  you  know, 
with  a  wounded  arm.  They  help  one  to  forget  the 
pain." 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you?"  she 
asked,  struck  by  sudden  compassion. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  a  smile  took  all  the 
bitterness  out  of  his  livid  face.  Slowly  his  eyes 
closed. 

"Thanks!  There's  nothing  you  or  any  one  can 
do.  I — ^I'm  beyond  help.  Lots  of  people  think 
they  can  pull  me  up,  when  they  find  me  here  .  .  . 
like  this.     God!     How  this  arm  hurts." 

She  went  closer  and  knelt  by  his  side.  She 
wished  he  would  open  his  eyes. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  fetch  a  doctor?" 

He  laughed  again,  oddly  she  thought. 

"Doctors  can't  do  anything.  I've  seen  lots  of 
'em.  French  and  English,  too.  They  know  I'll 
only  go  mj^  own  way.  No,  the  cut  isn't  hurting  at 
all.     I  didn't  say  it  was,  did  I?" 

"I  must  try  and  find  somebody." 

He  roused  himself  suddenly. 

"If  you  go — you'll  never  get  out  alive.  Hark  at 
'em  now  .  .  .  sheer  devils — howling  for  the  life  of 
a  pretty  English  girl.  I  thought  you  were  an  angel 
when  I  saw  you  ...     in  that  room.     It's  getting 


30         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

quite  dark ;  you  won't  be  going  yet.  I — I'm  afraid 
to  be  aJone.  I  want  some  one  with  me.  I  want 
you.  ...  I  say — ^you  haven't  gone?  You're  still 
here?" 

His  hand  reached  out  and  touched  her  arm.  Im- 
mediately all  fear  vanished,  and  the  woman  in  her 
returned. 

"Yes,  I  am  here  still,"  she  said  softly. 

"Thank,  God,"  he  muttered,  and  then  his  chin 
dropped  to  his  breast,  and  he  slid  forward  .  .  . 
and  slept  as  would  a  child  in  the  arms  of  its 
mother. 

For  a  long  time  Saada  sat  thus,  afraid  to  move 
lest  she  should  disturb  the  sleeper.  About  the 
loose-limbed,  ill-conditioned  man  in  his  torn, 
thread-bare  clothes,  was  something  distasteful  to 
her  sense  of  orderliness;  yet  there  had  been  a  look 
on  his  face,  a  gleam  of  wistful  appeal  in  his  eyes, 
which  instinctively  touched  her  heart.  She  remem- 
bered, too,  how  magnificently,  and  with  what  reck- 
less courage,  he  had  fought  on  her  behalf  .  .  . 
and  the  knowledge  strengthened  her  to  stand  by 
him  as  long  as  he  needed  her. 

As  he  showed  no  sign  of  awakening,  she  released 
him  gently,  then,  creeping  to  the  door,  tried  the 
handle.  It  was  locked!  She  stared  about  her 
hopelessly.  How  long  had  elapsed  since  she  first 
went  into  Hadji  Ahmed's  shop  she  did  not  know. 
The  watch  on  her  wrist,  broken  in  the  struggle,  had 
stopped.  The  damascened  dagger  on  the  crude 
painted  table — her  intended  wedding-gift  to  her 


THE  MAN  OF  DREAMS  31 

husband — was  the  closest  reminder  of  the  terrible 
experience  through  which  she  had  passed. 

High  up  in  the  wall  a  tiny  window,  shuttered 
and  barred  with  a  shield  of  ornamental  painted 
ironwork,  admitted  slender  pencils  of  red-gold 
light  which  lay  in  streaks  of  flame  upon  the  Moorish 
tiled  floor. 

Cautiously  she  drew  the  table  to  the  furthest 
wall.  John  Williams  still  lay  in  the  shadows  .  .  . 
an  inert  mass.  She  looked  at  him  and  wondered 
at  the  expression  of  ineffable  peace  upon  his  grey 
lips.  He  muttered  something  and  stirred  in  his 
sleep;  she  caught  the  scarcely  audible  words, 

"Williams — not  Forrester.  Don't — forget — John 
Williams." 

As  if  she  were  likely  to  forget !  A  surge  of  grati- 
tude warmed  her  to  this  broken  man,  still  young, 
yet  with  the  mark  of  years  heavily  on  him.  Her 
trembling  hands  raised  her  to  the  table ;  she  looked 
out  and  swiftly  drew  her  scared  face  away,  for  an 
angry  mob  still  patrolled  the  street  and  fierce  cries 
suddenly  broke  the  quiet  of  the  drowsy  afternoon. 
They  were  hunting  for  her,  or  Williams — or  both. 
She  started  as  a  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
glancing  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  Williams  rising 
unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked,  laying  a  heavy 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

She  looked  up  into  his  rugged  face. 

"I  want  to  go — back  to  my  friends.  They  will  be 
getting  anxious." 


32         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Of  course!"  He  rubbed  the  sleep  out  of  his 
eyes.  His  voice  dropped  to  a  thoughtful  monotone. 
"You  must  consider  them  .  .  .  but  I  must  consider 
you.     Have  I  slept  long?" 

"About  two  hours,  I  should  think." 

He  looked  penitent. 

"I  am  ever  so  sorry.  Please  forgive  me.  I  felt 
very  ill.  It  seems  unkind  to  keep  you  shut  up  with 
me.  Yet  I  dare  not  let  you  go.  Listen !  You  hear 
that!"  He  raised  his  hand.  "The  heathen  rage 
ever  so  wickedly.  Is  that  correct?  I  do  not 
know.  It  is  so  long  since  I  read  a  prayer-book. 
They  scream  to  Allah  to  give  them  the  blood  of  the 
Christian  dogs.  Bah !  It  was  an  unlucky  stroke  of 
fortune  that  brought  you  here." 

"You  don't  think  it  would  be  safe  to  try " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  shan't  let  30U.  You  are  in  my  care.  I  am 
responsible  to  your  friends.  Your  blood  would  be 
on  my  own  head.  God  knows,  it  carries  enough 
already.  You  must  trust  yourself  to  me,  till  it  is 
dark  and  all  is  quiet.  Then  I  can  take  you,  by  a 
way  I  know,  over  the  flat  roofs  and  lead  you  right 
into  the  Rue  Liblane.     You  will  be  safe  then." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

His  eyes  shone. 

"It  is  nothing — only  what  any  Englishman 
would  do  for  one  of  his  own  countrywomen.     But 

.  .  let  me  think ;  how  my  memory  fails  me !"  hold- 
ing his  hand  to  his  forehead.  "Didn't  you  tell  me 
you  were  a  native  girl?" 


THE  MAN  OF  DKEAMS  33 

She  nodded. 

"Yes.  My  name  is  Saada  Medene  .  .  .  and  I 
am  staying  at  the  Transatlantique  hotel  on  the  road 
out  of  the  town  looking  towards  the  Rummel  and 
the  El  Kantara  bridge.  My  father,  Sheikh  Medene, 
lives  in  Tunis.     I  was  born  in  Tunis." 

He  was  looking  at  her  in  a  dreamy,  far-away 
fashion,  searching  every  line  of  her  beautiful  face 
and  form. 

"It  is  strange.  I  see  nothing  of  the  native  about 
you.  You  are  dark,  but  neither  your  hair  nor  eyes 
are  Arabian.  No,  it  can't  be;  there  is  a  mistake 
somewhere.  And  your  voice  ...  it  is  so  typically 
English  ...  I  am  sorry  I  interrupted  you.  You 
would  like  something  to  eat." 

"I  am  hungry — and  very  thirsty,"  she  admitted. 
He  fetched  a  derelict  cushion  from  a  dark  cupboard 
and  set  it  on  the  ledge. 

"Sit  there.  I  can  offer  you  both  food  and  drink — 
of  a  sort.  By  the  grace  of  God,  and  the  generosity 
of  an  Arab  friend,  to  whom  once  I  rendered  a 
service,  I  am  allowed  to  live  here.  This,"  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  which  took  in  the  uncarpeted 
floor  and  bare  walls,  "is  my  home.  Y'ou  will  take 
a  little  wine?" 

Saada  began  to  feel  more  at  ease.  The  rough, 
almost  brutish  manner  had  gone,  given  place  to  an 
old-time  courtesy.  He  spoke  and  behaved  like  a 
gentleman.  There  was  unmistakable  breeding  in 
every  line,  every  movement  of  the  ill-conditioned 
figure  as  he  crossed  the  room  and  brought  from  the 


34         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

cupboard  a  wine-jar,  a  glass  and  a  box  of  crudelj- 
made  native  cakes  and  biscuits.  She  ate  and  drank 
eagerly,  hoped  he  would  share  the  frugal 
meal. 

He  negatived  the  suggestion  with  a  lift  of  his 
hand. 

"I  never  eat.  Sometimes  I  take  a  little  water. 
My  meat  and  drink  are  here,"  and  he  brought  out 
the  tiny  metal  box. 

Her  eyes  darkened. 

"They  are  not  good  for  you,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said 
chidingly. 

At  this  he  laughed. 

"It  is  a  form  of  haschish^  Miss  Medene.  I  should 
die  without  it.  But  for  once — out  of  respect  for 
you — I  will  forgo,"  and  he  slipped  the  box  back 
into  the  folds  of  his  ragged  shirt.  As  he  stood 
there,  in  the  middle  of  the  wretched  room,  the 
westering  sun  fell  upon  his  tired  face.  A  slow 
change  came  over  it:  the  thin  mouth  gradually 
lost  its  weakness;  she  saw  the  muscles  of  the  lean 
jaw  flex  and  the  grey  eyes  took  on  a  brightness 
denied  them  through  many  weary  days.  The  big 
capable  hands  rose  and  fell :  he  caught  her  curious 
watching  glance,  and  the  long  arms  dropped  to  his 
side.  Then  he  took  a  step  forward,  and  coming 
to  the  ledge,  sat  down  at  her  side. 

"You've  done  more  for  me  than  I  reckoned  any 
human  had  the  power  to  do,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Oh!"  she  answered,  staring  ahead  into  the 
gloom.     "In  what  way?" 


THE  MAN  OF  DEEAMS  35 

He  bent  Ms  elbows  on  his  knees  and  propped  his 
chin  in  his  hands. 

"You've  helped  me  to  remember  ...  I  was  once 
a  man." 

Her  voice  rose  on  the  strained  silence. 

"Once  a  man!  What  do  you  mean?  You  are  a 
very  fine  man — to  do  all  you  have  done  for  a  de- 
fenceless girl." 

A  bitter  laugh  escaped  him.  He  took  the  lapels 
of  his  torn  jacket,  and  holding  them,  stared  down 
at  himself. 

"Look  at  me !  Can  you  call  me  a  man?  ...  A 
battered,  loathsome  semblance  of  what  I  might 
have  been.  A  drug  fiend  .  .  .  yes,  that's  what  I 
am;  a  horrid  speck  in  the  dregs  of  civilization 
washed  up  by  most  mixed  Oriental  cities.  Do'  I 
disgust  you*,  Miss  Medene?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  regarded  him  with 
melancholy. 

"No,  but  you  sadden  me.  Isn't  there  anything 
I  can  do?" 

His  lips  parted  contemptuously. 

"You !  You — do  anything  for  a  piece  of  human 
flotsam  like  me?  There's  not  a  soul  under  heaven 
could  lift  me  out  of  the  slime  .  .  .  even  if  I  wanted 
to  be  lifted." 

"But  you  do  want  to  be  lifted,"  she  said  earn- 
estly. "You  proved  it,  a  moment  ago,  when  you 
put  that  dreadful  box  away.  You  know  ...  I 
will  help  you,  if  I  can.  Won't  you  .  .  .  won't 
you  try?" 


36         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

In  her  sweet  womanly  sympathy  she  allowed  her 
white  fingers  to  touch  his  shoulder.  He  drew 
away  as  though  the  contact  seared  him. 

"Don't!"  he  said  thickly.  "You  make  me  feel 
.  .  .  ashamed." 

Her  voice  was  full  of  compassion  now. 

"Isn't  it  good  sometimes  to  feel  ashamed?  You 
are  not  happy — like  this." 

"I  was  happy  once,"  he  said,  looking  up.  "But 
it  was  a  very  long  time  ago — so  long  that  until 
you  spoke  of  it  ...  I  ...  I  had  almost  forgot- 
ten. There  was  a  time — when  I  was  like  you — 
full  of  youth  and  strength.  .  .  .  My  God,  how  good 
it  was  to  live !" 

"Cannot  it  be  good  again?" 

"No."  The  fine  head  with  the  matted  brown 
hair,  flecked  about  the  ears  with  tiny  strands  of 
silver-grey,  moved  sideways.  "The  past  is  done 
with.  I  shall  go  on  to  the  end,  sinking  lower  and 
lower  until  ...  I  find  forgetfulness.  I  try  to 
now:  generally,  my  mind  is  numb — and  you — you 
are  trying  to  make  me  remember." 

"Only  for  your  own  sake,"  she  said  softly. 

A  slow  smile  crept  up  about  his  mouth.  The 
clearly-cut  sensitive  nostrils  quivered  ever  so 
slightly.  He  turned  on  her  a  haggard,  pained 
glance. 

"It  sounds  strange  to  hear  words  of  comfort 
from  the  lips  of  a  young  girl.  And  yet  .  .  .  you 
don't  mind  my  telling  you  this?" 

"Of  course  not." 


THE  MAN  OF  DREAMS  37 

"It  was  a  girl  like  you  who  brought  me  down. 
Does  that  sound  cowardly?" 

"In  a  way — yes,"  she  answered.  "A  man  should 
be  the  captain  of  his  own  soul," 

"So  you  think!"  He  smiled  bitterly.  "A  man 
gives  his  soul  to  the  woman  of  his  choice  ...  at 
least,  I  did,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here  now.  Once  I 
was  full  of  hope  and  vigour.  Love  was  my  life,  as 
perhaps  it  is  yours." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  thoughtfully. 
"Men  and  women  have  other  things  in  life  besides 
love." 

"Then  they  aren't  in  love,"  he  flashed  back 
promptly.  "I  know  now  that  I  wasn't  in  love. 
Three  long  happy  years  I  thought  I  was.  That 
woman  was  the  world  to  me.  Then  my  luck 
turned:  my  prospects  went,  and  her  affection 
went,  too.     That  was  how  I  came  to  find  myself." 

His  fingers  began  to  move  blindly  towards  his 
vest.  She  closed  them  in  a  warm  friendly  clasp 
and  drew  them  away. 

His  glance  met  hers  challengingly. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  he  began  .  .  .  halted, 
looked  down  and,  breathing  a  deep  sigh,  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"Would  it  be  safe  for  me  to  go  now?"  she  asked. 
He  looked  up  at  the  bars  of  light,  touched  with 
changing  hues  of  amber  and  tawny  gold. 

"Not  yet.  When  the  mueddin  calls  the  last 
prayer  from  the  Djama  Salah  Bey,  the  big  mosque 
at  the  end  of  the  Place  Negrier,  it  will  be  dark. 


38         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

We  shall  hear  him,  *  Allah  Akbar,  ayah  sal  at' — you 
know  the  words?  'Allah  only  is  Great:  there  is 
but  one  God,  and  Mahomet  is  his  Prophet.  Allah 
is  Great.'     Don't  you  say  them  every  day?" 

"Not  now,"  looking  him  between  the  eyes.  "You 
see,  I  am  a  Christian.  My  father  was  Mahom- 
medan.  When  I  had  been  a  little  while  in  Eng- 
land I  felt  the  need  to  change  my  faith.  In  the 
Christian  religion  I  found  something  more  satisfy- 
ing than  the  beliefs  of  Islam." 

"But  surely  your  father " 

"I  told  him  when  I  reached  Tunis  a  little  while 
ago.  At  first  he  was  sad,  but  he  said,  'What  will 
be,  will  be.  It  is  Allah's  wish.'  I  do  not  believe 
I  could  have  become  engaged  to  an  Englishman 
and  remained  a  Mahommedan." 

"Then  you  are  engaged  ...  to  be  married?" 

His  tone  was  quite  passionless. 

"Yes.  I  am  staying  with  my  fiance  and  his 
mother  at  the  hotel.  His  name  is  Railsford  .  .  . 
perhaps  you  have  heard  it.  He  used  to  be  in  the 
Consular  service  in  Algiers." 

Williams  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  never  heard  the  name.  What  were  we 
saying  when  you  talked  about  having  to  go?" 

She  rose  and  moved  towards  the  window,  look- 
ing up  at  the  interlaced  woodwork.  The  fading 
twilight  painted  the  upturned  face  with  a  warm, 
flushed  rosiness  that  added  to  her  wondrous 
beauty. 


THE  MAN  OF  DEEAMS  39 

^TTou  were  telling  me  about  the  sadness  in  your 
life." 

He  stretched  himself  to  the  full  height  of  his 
magnificent  stature  and  began  to  pace  the  narrow 
room  with  slow,  grave  strides. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  something  of  his  old 
recklessness  returning.  "The  woman  threw  me 
over,  that's  all.  I  became  a  bad  egg,  and  have  re- 
mained one  ever  since.  I  drifted  East,  and  you 
know  what  that  means  to  a  man  who  has  nothing 
to  live  for." 

"You  have  yourself,"  she  rebuked  gently. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Myself!  What  am  I?"  contemptuously.  "A 
scrap  of  human  wreckage  thrown  up  by  the  under- 
current of  an  Oriental  city.  I  stay  here,  in  Con- 
stantine,  so  that  I  may  live  as  I  shall  die  .  .  .  un- 
known." 

Saada  turned,  and  her  face  was  lit  by  a  sympa- 
thetic smile. 

"You  are  not  to  think  of  yourself  alone,"  she 
replied,  reaching  up  and  laying  her  palm  against 
his  shoulder.  "Won't  you  believe  that  in  me  you 
have  a  friend?" 

He  laughed  in  quiet  derision. 

"Yes !  A  friend  whom  I  shall  never  see  again." 
Then,  a  change  coming  over  him,  "All  the  same,  I 
shall  treasure  the  memory  .  .  .  and  sometimes, 
when  I  am  tempted  to  sink " 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  sink  lower,"  she  said 


40         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

bravely.     "You  are  going  to  make  a  great  fight,  to 
win  your  way  back  again  to  the  level  of  other  men." 

His  hand  closed  over  hers  suddenly. 

"I  wonder — ^is  it  worth  while?"  he  questioned, 
regarding  her  wistfully.  "There  is  so  little  left  to 
build  upon." 

"And  yet  so  much,"  she  answered  gravely. 
"The  sympath}'^  of  a  friend  will  help  you.  I  will 
stand  by  you;  Lance  will,  too.  He  is  ever  so 
good." 

"The  man  you  are  to  marry?" 

"Yes.  We  are  leaving  Constantino  shortly  for 
El  Bouira.  Won't  you  come  to  see  us  there?  Per- 
haps, if  you  want  a  helping  hand,  Lance  would 
find  you  something  to  do." 

"Why  should  he?"  the  man  asked. 

"Because,"  she  assured  him,  "you  have  done  so 
much  for  me.  You  saved  me  from  something — 
ugh !" 

"We  won't  talk  about  it.  In  a  little  while  you 
will  be  safe  in  your  hotel." 

"But  you  will  come  to  see  us?" 

"Perhaps." 

'Why  do  you  say  that?" 

He  spread  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  self-con- 
tempt. 

"How  can  I  come  as  I  am?  No  decent  people 
would  want  to  know  me." 

"I  want  to  know  you.     Won't  you  promise " 

"To  try  and  give  up  this  thing?"  tapping  the 
belt  at  his  waist. 


THE  MAN  OF  DREAMS  41 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Give  me  your  word.  I  know 
you'll  never  go  back." 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

Her  eyes  were  shining  with  a  serene  light, 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Something  tells  me  .  .  .  you 
will  win  through." 

For  a  long  minute  he  was  silent.  Then  he  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  promise  ...  to  put  up  a  fight,  little  lady 
.  .  .  and  if  ever  I  do  win  through  I  will  come  to 
El  Bouira  .  .  .  just  to  show  you  that  I  have  made 
good.  See,  it  is  quite  dark:  in  a  very  little  while 
you  will  be  safely  home." 

Saada  looked  up.  The  advantage  of  his  great 
height  had  enabled  Williams  to  raise  the  trap  in 
the  low  ceiling;  she  saw  a  square  of  purple  sky, 
hazy  with  the  faint  luminance  of  stars. 

She  smiled  bravely,  though  the  dread  of  the 
anknown  still  lurked  in  the  background  of  her 
mind. 

"You  think  it  is  quite  safe  to  try?" 

Long  since  she  had  lost  all  fear  of  him ;  it  seemed 
quite  natural  to  look  to  him  for  protection. 

"As  safe  as  anything  ever  is  by  night  in  the  na- 
tive quarter  of  an  Arab  town.  It  will  require  nerve 
to  jump  from  one  roof  to  another.  You  aren't 
afraid  ...  to  trust  yourself  to  me?" 

She  met  his  serious  questioning  with  a  steady 
gaze. 

"Haven't  I  trusted  myself  to  you  all  this  time? 
Of  course  I'm  not  afraid.     Why  should  I  be?" 


42         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  awkwardly,  as  he 
lumbered  across  the  room  towards  her  and  looked 
down  sheepishly  at  his  rough  attire.  "I'm  hardly 
the  type  to  inspire  confidence.     May  I  lift  you?" 

An  hour  since  she  might  have  shuddered  at  his 
touch.  But  time  had  brought  an  understanding  of 
John  Williams;  she  knew  that  her  sympathy  and 
faith  had  touched  the  man  in  him,  and  that  for  a 
time,  at  any  rate,  the  brute  in  his  nature  was  con- 
quered. 

She  made  the  slightest  motion  of  assent  and 
stood  quite  still  as  his  big  brown  hands  caught  her 
by  the  waist.  Then  he  raised  her  until  her  hands 
touched  the  side  of  the  trap  and  she  was  able  to 
draw  herself  into  a  sitting  position. 

"Can  you  manage?"  she  asked,  watching  his  fine 
figure  moving  to  and  fro  in  the  gloom. 

"Just  give  me  your  hand.  Sit  tight  when  you 
feel  my  weight!  So!"  Her  soft,  warm  fingers 
closed  on  his :  a  surge  of  feeling  swept  through  him 
at  the  touch;  he  fought  it  down,  and  leaping  up- 
ward, caught  the  ledge.  A  moment  later  they 
crouched  together  on  the  flat  roof,  breathing  heav- 
ily with  the  effort  of  their  exertions. 

Her  eyes  smiled  at  him  through  the  peachy  blue- 
ness  of  the  night;  he  caught  the  white  glint  of  her 
teeth  against  the  vivid  scarlet  of  her  lips,  and  a 
self-satisfied  laugh  escaped  him. 

"I  wonder — what  your  people  would  think,  could 
they  see  us  now.  I — I  almost  wish  ...  I'd  never 
met  you." 


THE  MAN  OF  DREAMS  43 

She  shook  her  head  as  she  sat  there,  recovering 
her  breath. 

"You  shouldn't  say  that.  I  might,  by  this  time, 
have  been  dead," 

"Or  worse,"  he  muttered  thickly.  "These  parts 
are  no  place  for  a  white  woman  after  dark." 

"You  forget" — merrily — "I  am  Arab." 

"Of  course."  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head and  brushed  back  the  thick  cluster  of  dark 
hair.  "I — so  easily  forget.  Tomorrow,  perhaps, 
almost  all  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  say  will 
have  gone  from  my  mind.  But  I  will  try  to  re- 
member— I  promised,  didn't  I?" 

"You  did  indeed,"  she  answered  encouragingly. 
"And  when  we  meet  again  you'll  have  such  won- 
derful things  to  tell  me.  You  will  say,  'I  haven't 
fallen  back!  I've  stuck  to  my  guns,  and  I'm  win- 
ning through.'     Won't  that  be  splendid?" 

He  leant  closer,  a  heavy  mass  against  the  sharp 
whiteness  of  the  parapet;  the  slight  warmth  of  his 
breath  touched  her  cheek. 

"Why — why  do  you  take  all  this  interest  in  me?" 

She  looked  up  into  the  straight  grey  eyes,  heavy 
with  pain. 

"I — I  don't  know.  I  simply  can't  tell  you;  un- 
less it  is  .  .  .  you  saved  my  life.  Of  course  I 
shall  never  forget  that.  Always  I  shall  think 
gratefully  of  you,  and  I  shall  hope  that,  very  soon, 
you'll  be  the  fine  strong  man  you  used  to  be." 

He  laughed  almost  mockingly  and  shook  his 
massive  head  to  the  stars. 


M         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Good  Lord,  I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse — as  a  lion, 
tonight.  I  could  do  wonderful  things,  if  only 
,  .  ."  He  checked  himself  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"Come  along,"  he  said  curtly.  "I've  kept  you  too 
long  already." 

"Have  we  far  to  go?" — rising. 

"A  goodish  way.  Some  of  the  roofs  adjoin.  At 
others  there  is  a  leap.  No  one  takes  the  slightest 
notice — except  when  a  guilty  Arab  takes  this  way 
to  visit  his  lady  friends.  Then,  often  enough, 
there  is  a  shriek  in  the  dark,  and  later  his  body  is 
found  sweltering  in  the  sun.  Life  doesn't  count 
overmuch  with  them." 

They  moved  forward,  quickly  putting  several 
streets  between  them  and  the  scene  of  their  first 
meeting.  A  stillness  had  descended  on  the  town. 
Saada  saw  she  was  at  a  great  height,  and  marvelled 
until  she  remembered  that  the  ancient  city  is  built 
upon  a  block  of  rocks  rising  perpendicularly  nearly 
a  thousand  feet  above  the  surrounding  countryside. 
The  restless  murmur  of  the  River  of  Sand  added  its 
music  to  the  hushed  sounds  of  night  life  in  the 
native  quarter,  and  afar  off  a  crescent  moon  sil- 
vered the  rugged  line  of  the  distant  mountains. 

Beyond  the  sable  windings  of  the  ravine  the  cul- 
tivated fields  were  darkened  here  and  there  by 
olive  groves.  And  against  the  blackness  of  one 
they  caught  the  white  glint  of  a  marabout's  tomb. 

"Your  friends  will  be  getting  anxious?" 

The  man's  cultured  voice  broke  in  upion  her  re- 
flections. 


THE  MAN  OF  DREAMS  45 

"I'm  afraid  they  will,"  she  replied  in  a  detached 
sort  of  way.  "My  fiance  will  be  wondering  what 
has  happened.  I  left  the  hotel  before  noon,  and 
now " 

"It  is  past  eight,  I'm  afraid.  However,  you  won't 
be  long  now.  This  ladder  leads  to  a  courtyard 
with  an  open  door.  Let  me  go  first,  in  case  you 
stumble." 

Once  more  she  surrendered  herself  quite  will- 
ingly to  his  strong  clasp,  and  allowed  him  to  grip 
her  hand  as  he  drew  her  into  a  narrow  shadowed 
passage. 

"You  had  better  leave  me  now,"  she  said,  as  they 
struck  into  the  well-lit  Place  du  Palais. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  replied  with  grave  deter- 
mination. "You  have  a  good  mile  to  go  along  a 
badly  lighted  road.  I  shan't  leave  you  until  you 
reach  the  hotel." 

Her  eyes  kindled. 

"That  will  be  splendid.  I  want  you  to  meet 
Lance." 

"Who's  Lance?"  he  asked  abruptly,  puckering 
his  brows. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  she  said.  "The  man 
I'm  engaged  to — Mr.  Eailsford.  I  told  you  .  .  , 
when  we  were  in  that  room." 

Williams  drew  his  wandering  thoughts  together 
with  a  great  effort.  The  effect  of  the  drug  had  not 
yet  entirely  vanished. 

"Yes — I  do  recollect  .  .  .  something.  And 
didn't  you  tell  me — ^you  had  been  in  England?" 


46         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Saada  nodded. 

"My  father  sent  me  to  England  to  be  educated. 
To  Paris  first  .  .  .  then  I  was  at  school  four  years 
in  Tonbridge.     After  that  I  went  to  London." 

"London,"  he  repeated.  "It  seems  ages  since  I 
was  there.  How  is  it  in  these  days?  I  haven't 
been  to  England  since  before  the  war," 

"I  saw  very  little  of  it  really."  Her  manner  had 
become  grave.  "You  see,  I  had  to  work  to  keep 
myself.  My  father  lost  all  his  money.  He  used  to 
to  be  one  of  the  richest  sheikhs  in  Tunisia.  Then 
misfortune  came  .  .  .  and  he  lost  everything  ex- 
ce'pt  his  house.  I  couldn't  stay  at  school  after  that 
— so  I  just  took  the  only  job  for  which  I  was  fitted. 
I  became  a  translator  of  Arabic  for  Mr.  Railsford 
at  the  Foreign  Office." 

"And  now  you  are  going  to  marry  him?" 

She  was  conscious  of  Williams'  glance  searching 
her  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly.  "We  are  to  be  married 
almost  as  soon  as  we  reach  El  Bouira.  I  told  you 
that,  too.     Your  memory  is  very  bad." 

"It  is  the  wretched  drug,"  he  said  heavily.  "I've 
brought  myself  to  a  terrible  state.  So,"  as  though 
repeating  the  words  to  himself,  "you — are — to  be 
married  very  soon."  The  sigh  that  left  him  did 
not  escape  her.  "It  seems  strange  you  should 
marry  an  Englishman." 

"It  is  strange,"  she  agreed.  "And  yet  I  don't 
feel  like  an  Arab.    All  my  thoughts  and  inclina- 


THE  MAN  OF  DKEAMS  47 

tions  are  English.  I  suppose — ^because  I've  lived 
so  long  in  your  country." 

"Will  you  ever  go  back?" 

"I  think  so  .  .  .  one  day.  Mr.  Eailsford  must 
return  to  London  before  he  takes  up  another  post 
elsewhere.  One  never  knows  where  it  may  be — 
China,  the  Far  East,  Turkey.  But  I'm  glad  to  be 
back  in  North  Africa  again." 

They  walked  the  next  quarter  of  a  mile  over  the 
dusty  rise  in  silence.  Williams  had  relapsed  into 
moody  reflection.  Something  of  the  buoyancy 
which  he  had  shown  in  his  squalid  lodging  had 
left  him ;  he  walked  heavily,  as  a  man  long  denied 
the  power  of  sleep. 

Saada's  heart  went  out  in  sympathy. 

"When  you  get  back,  promise  .  .  .  you  will 
rest?"  she  asked, 

"Yes,  I  will  rest,"  he  said  drowsily. 

"Without  touching  the  drug."  Then,  a  fresh 
thought  striking  her,  "Don't  you  think  you  had 
better  give  the  box  to  me?" 

"No,"  he  said  almost  roughly,  "it  is  mine.  I 
prefer  to  keep  it." 

She  accepted  the  rebuff  good-naturedly. 

"Very  well!  This  is  the  hotel.  You  will  come 
in " 

"Thank  you.     I  prefer  to  get  back." 

"But  Lance " 

"I  have  no  wish  to  meet  him,  or  any  one  ...  in 
my  present  state." 


48         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Please  don't  talk  like  that.  You  promised  not 
to  be  hopeless." 

"Did  I  ?"  His  manner  softened  as  he  caught  her 
pained  glance.  "I  am  sorry.  Forgive,"  and  he 
held  out  his  hand. 

"Will  you  come — before  we  go?"  she  asked. 
"We  shan't  leave  for  a  couple  of  days." 

Williams  drew  himself  to  his  full  height.  She 
noticed  the  swift  heave  of  the  broad  shoulders,  the 
squaring  of  the  long  jaw. 

"If  you  don't  see  me  you'll  know  I^ve  gone  under. 
Then  you  needn't  bother  any  more." 

"If  I  don't  see  you  I  shall  come  and  find  you," 
she  said  firmly.  "I  should  know  the  house  again. 
So  until  we  meet  again — good-bye." 

A  mysterious  smile  flitted  over  his  face:  their 
fingers  met  in  a  warm  clasp,  lingered  a  moment; 
then  he  drew  away,  and  as  a  voice  called  to  her 
from  the  terrace  he  turned  and  swung  down  the 
white  dusty  road. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  SHADOW 


'^/"^  AADA,  wherever  have  you  been?" 
^^^  Lance    Eailsford   came   swiftly   across   the 
|^^_^  terrace,  his  voice  edged  with  sharpness,  as 
peering  beyond  her  he  watched  the  tall  figure  of 
Williams  disappear  into  the  night, 

"I  met  with  a  most  extraordinary  adventure," 
she  said  calmly.  "To  begin  with,  I  lost  my  way 
in  the  souks.  .  .  /^ 

"To  begin  with,"  he  repeated  irritably,  "you  had 
no  business  to  go  alone  into  the  souks  at  all.  You 
know  my  wishes  in  the  matter." 

"But,  Lance^— " 

"Don't  make  excuses.  You've  no  right  to  follow 
your  own  sweet  will  regardless  of  other  people's 
feelings.  It's  a  side  of  your  character  which  I 
won't  put  up  with." 

She  looked  up  coldly  into  his  flushed,  angry  face. 

"If  you  will  only  be  reasonable " 

He  cut  her  short  with  a  guesture  of  impatience. 

"Be  reasonable!  Good  Lord!  Is  it  reasonable 
for  a  girl  to  set  off  alone  and  wander  at  this  time  of 
night  through  the  native  quarter  .  .  .  and  then  re- 
turn, lamely  excusing  herself,  in  the  company  of  a 

49 


50         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

strange  man?  If  this  is  what  the  return  to  your 
beloved  East  means  .  .  ." 

His  sniff  of  derision  whipped  a  spot  of  angry 
colour  into  her  cheeks.  She  faced  him,  calm-eyed, 
but  secretly  furious. 

"I  think,  Lance,  you  forget  yourself.  At  least 
behave  like  a  gentleman." 

The  rebuke  sobered  him. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  take  the  high  band. 
I've  had  a  most  horribly  anxious  time.  You  left 
before  eleven.  Half  an  hour  later  mother  received 
a  cable  calling  her  to  England." 

Saada's  anger  melted. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope,  dear?"  she  asked  in  a 
conciliatory  voice. 

He  walked  the  terrace  with  quick,  impatient 
strides,  every  now  and  then  glancing  back  along 
the  road  which  Williams  had  taken. 

"Serious  enough,"  he  muttered  brusquely.  "My 
uncle  Hugh  has  been  taken  ill,  and  I  suppose  he 
wants  mother  to  nurse  him.  Haven't  even  heard  of 
him  for  years ;  now,  when  he  needs  somebody " 

"Lance,  dear,  you  are  in  a  very  bitter  mood  to- 
night.   Don't  be  angry." 

He  glowered  at  her. 

"But  I  am  angry,  so  what's  the  use  of  denying 
it?  I  had  to  help  the  mater  scramble  her  things 
together:  she's  gone,  without  your  saying  good- 
bye to  her  .  .  .  and,  goodness  knows,  she's  none 
too  friendly  disposed  to  you  as  it  is." 

"What?" 


THE  SHADOW  51 

The  words  had  slipped  out  almost  before  he 
realized  their  significance.  Saada  was  regarding 
him  with  a  hurt  expression. 

"Well,  what  I  mean  is,"  he  equivocated,  "she 
never  has  been  any  too  friendly,  and  now  you've 
absolutely  offended  her  by  going  off  on  your  own 
sweet  pleasure  and  .  .  ." 

A  great  fear  knocked  at  Saada's  heart.  All  the 
same,  her  voice  was  restrained. 

"You  have  told  me  something  you  have  never 
mentioned  before.  Mrs.  Railsford  does  not  ap- 
proave  of  me  because  of  my  Arab  blood.  Is  that 
what  you  mean?" 

There  was  something  in  the  perfect  control  of 
voice  and  emotions  that  he  began  to  feel  afraid  of. 
Perhaps  he  had  gone  too  far.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  made  me  very  angry, 
and  I  spoke  hastily,"  he  replied  in  more  concilia- 
tory tones.  "I  don't  care  a  button  what  other  peo- 
ple think  or  say.     I  want  you  for  myself — " 

She  stood  full  in  his  path,  and  the  tall  graceful 
figure  seemed  suddenly  to  have  added  to  its  height. 
Her  brown  hand  came  to  rest  on  his  sleeve. 

"Wait  a  moment;  don't  go  in  just  yet.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

"But  dinner's  ready.  You  must  be  tired  and 
hungry.  The  gong  sounded  half  an  hour  ago,"  he 
said,  hedging  unskilfully. 

Saada  forced  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Thank  you,  I'm  not  hungry.  I  want  to  know 
why  you  said  .  .  .  what  you  did  a  minute  ago. 


52         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

You  told  me — when  we  discussed  this  question  be- 
fore our  engagement — that  your  mother  had  no 
objection  to  your  marrying  me.  You  know, 
Lance,"  her  voice  suddenly  becoming  tender,  "I 
care  for  you  well  enough  to  release  you  .  .  .  rather 
than  she  should  be  unhappy." 

The  sight  of  her  standing  there  in  the  moonlight, 
the  peerless  loveliness  of  face  and  form,  the  subtle 
perfume  of  her  hair,  the  haunting  sadness  in  her 
dark  eyes,  swept  the  last  shred  of  reserve  away. 

"Darling,  don't  talk  like  that!"  he  slipped  his 
arm  about  her  with  passionate  warmth.  "You 
know  I  love  you  more  than  any  woman  in  the  world. 
Only  I  was  very  angry :  I  do  want  to  see  mother  and 
you  the  best  of  friends,  and  this  foolishness  on  your 
part  promised  to  raise  a  barrier,  that's  all.  She 
wasn't  well  pleased  at  going  off  without  your 
being  there  to  say  good-bye.  Now  tell  me  .  .  . 
all  that  happened." 

The  girl  drew  a  slow  breath  of  relief.  She 
wanted  to  make  Lance  happy — for  all  his  goodness 
to  her. 

"I  met  with  an  adventure.  The  first  part  was 
decidedly  unpleasant." 

"Oh !"    His  mind  flew  back  to  the  stranger. 

"I  was  kept  shut  up  in  a  room  at  the  back  of  a 
native  bazaar.  I  went  there  to  buy  several  things. 
A  young  Arab  tried  to  make  love  to  me.  He  wanted 
me  to  kiss  him " 

"Good  God!" 

"I  struck  him.     Then,  when  he  took  hold  of  me, 


THE  SHADOW  53 

I  cried  out,  and  an  Englishman  came  to  my  rescue." 

"By  Jove,  that's  lucky!     Who  was  he?" 

She  looked  away,  but  the  white  ribbon  of  road 
was  deserted  now. 

"He  told  me  his  name  was  Williams  ...  a  tall, 
big  fellow." 

A  derisive  laugh  left  Kailsford. 

"Oh,  I've  heard  of  him."  His  sensitive  upper  lip 
lifted  in  contempt.  "Williams,  the  dopey  man  of 
Constantino  .  .  .  the  biggest  blackguard  that  ever 
disgraced  a  fine  name." 

Saada  winced  at  the  scorn  in  Kailsford's  voice. 
But  just  as  quickly  came  the  instinct  to  fight  the 
cause  of  the  man  who  was  down. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  call  him  a  blackguard, 
Lance,"  she  said,  a  strange  tenderness  underlying 
her  words.  "He  may  have  been  weak  and  foolish 
' — to  give  way  as  he  has  done.  But  I've  seen  an- 
other side  of  his  character,  as  fine  as  any  man  could 
possess.  The  way  he  pulled  me  through  was  simply 
splendid." 

Eailsford  was  idly  caressing  his  close-clipped 
dark  moustache,  and  still  staring  beyond  her 
towards  the  lights  of  the  city  twinkling  on  the 
rocky  crest  of  the  hill. 

"Well,  what  did  he  do?"  he  asked.  "He  appears 
to  have  made  a  creditable  impression  on  you." 

The  girl  purposely  ignored  the  scarcely-veiled 
sneer.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known 
Eailsford  she  was  experiencing  a  sense  of  repug- 
nance. 


54         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"I  wonder  how  you  would  feel  if  you  had  been  in 
my  position — at  the  mercy  of  a  beast?  John  Will- 
iams came  and  taught  the  fellow  a  lesson  he  will 
never  forget.  A  score  of  other  Arabs  heard  his 
shrieks  and  swarmed  round  us.  Mr.  Williams  had 
to  fight  his  way  through.  He  was  as  brave  and 
strong  as  a  lion.  I  saw  four  men  go  down.  But, 
of  course,  he  couldn't  beat  them  all,  so  he  took  me 
by  a  narrow  little  staircase  to  the  roof,  and  shel- 
tered me  in  his  own  room  till  night  came  on." 

Railsford,  regarding  the  cameo-like  beauty  of  her 
face  against  the  darkness,  was  suddenly  conscious 
of  a  deep,  uncontrollable  jealousy.  Another  man 
had  obviously  awakened  an  interest  in  her. 

"I  suppose  he  did  what  any  other  decent  Brit- 
isher would  have  done,"  he  said  with  cutting  sar- 
casm.    "You  can't  imagine  a  white  man  allowing — '' 

"That  is  why  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  of 
him  dear  ...  as  you  did,"  she  remonstrated.  "He 
can't  be  such  a  blackguard.  .  .  ." 

He  swung  round  sharply  and  she  caught  the 
swift  glint  of  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"I  tell  you,  Saada,  the  fellow's  an  irreclaimable 
brute,  a  public  disgrace  .  .  .  and  I  don't  want  you 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  Of  course — if  a 
sum  of  money  would  meet " 

The  blood  rushed  and  flamed  to  the  roots  of 
Saada's  hair.  She  felt  like  giving  Lance  a  good 
shaking. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  you  tonight, 
Lance.    You're  not  at  all  your  usual  self.    Why 


THE  SHADOW  55 

insult  this  man  because  he  has  fallen?  Don't  you 
think,  if  he  had  been  the  sort  to  repay  with  money,  I 
should  have  offered  it?  He  asks  nothing,  wants 
nothing  but  your  sympathy  and  mine." 

"Did  he  say  so?"  Railsford  asked  foolishly. 

Her  lip  curled. 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  But  I  understand  men 
well  enough  to  know  when  a  kind  word,  a  friendly 
look,  means  everything.  John  Williams  promised 
me  ...  to  give  up  this  drug-taking,  and " 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  faintly  amused,  "I  never 
yet  met  a  dopey  man  who  wouldn't  promise  any- 
thing. It's  part  of  the  disease  .  .  .  the  exhibition 
of  maudlin  sentiment  which  accompanies  vows  of 
regeneration.     Where  does  this  fellow  live?" 

"In  a  room  in  the  native  quarter."       , 

"You  would  know  the  place  again?" 

"I  think  so.     Why?" 

"I  should  like  you  to  go  there  now,"  he  answered 
in  a  self-satisfied  way.  "You  would  find  this  John 
Williams  ...  by  the  by,  that's  only  an  alias;  his 
real  name  is  John  Brandreth  Forrester,  and  he  be- 
longs to  one  of  the  best  families  in  Leicestershire 
.  .  .  I've  no  doubt  you'd  find  him  dead  to  the  world 
with  haschish,  or  whatever  beastly  stuff  he  takes, 
about  as  unworthy  an  object  of  compassion  as  one 
could  find." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  don't  agree."  Saada  fell  in  at 
his  side  as  he  slowly  walked  the  length  of  the 
terrace.  Below  them,  the  voice  of  the  ever-swirling 
Rummel    was   full   of   strange    whisperings   that 


56         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

stirred  again  the  emotions  Williams  had  awakened 
in  her.  "My  faith  in  him  is  unshaken,  Lance.  I 
believe  he  will  keep  his  promise  to  give  up  this 
drug-taking  and  win  through." 

"And  if  he  does?" 

Lance  eyed  her  critically.  The  moonlight  showed 
the  sudden  surge  of  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  the 
quick  brightening  of  her  eyes. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,"  she  said,  clasping  her 
small  hands  together.  "I  shall  have  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  I  helped  him — that  I  made 
some  return  for  all  he  did  for  me." 

Her  sweetness  swept  him  with  a  chill  of  shame. 
How  petty  and  how  despicable  his  ungenerosity 
compared  with  her  bigness  of  heart !  He  drew  her 
nearer.  The  warmth  of  her  body  against  his  own 
swept  the  last  of  his  bitterness  away.  With  a 
hushed  murmur  of  passion  he  placed  his  hands 
upon  her  shoulders  and  reverently  lowered  his  lips 
to  hers.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke;  he  looked 
away  as  he  saw  the  tears,  swelling  under  the  dark 
lashes,  break  upon  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  ever  so  sorry.  I  was  jealous."  His  manner 
was  penitent.  "Something  seemed  to  get  hold 
of  me  when  I  saw  you  two  together.  T  watched 
from  the  end  of  the  balcony.  I  saw  him  take  your 
hand  .  .  .  and  hold  it.  I  thought — he  was  going 
to  kiss  your  fingers.  And  when  you  looked  up  into 
his  face  you  were  smiling  ...  as  I  remember  you 
smiled  at  me  the  night  you  promised  to  be  my 
wife.  .  .  . 


THE  SHADOW  57 

She  pressed  her  warm  palms  against  the  back 
of  his  hands  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  a  great 
longing. 

"I  want  to  see  other  people — everybody — just  as 
happy  as  I  am,"  Her  voice  was  vibrant.  "I  have 
so  much.  God  has  been  so  good  to  me.  My  heart 
is  full.  Lance,  don't  be  bitter  because  it  overflowed 
to  this  poor  human  wreckage." 

Railsford  shook  his  dark  head. 

"Yes,  that's  what  he  is,  I'm  afraid — a  piece  of 
flotsam  thrown  up  by  the  back  waters  of  an  African 
town.  There  is  no  hope  of  salving  him,  really. 
When  he  gets  quite  sodden  he'll  just  go  to  the 
bottom,  and  neither  you  nor  I  will  ever  find 
him." 

"We  must!  We  must!"  she  said  vehemently. 
"I  promised  I  would.  Always  I  shall  be  ready  to 
put  out  a  helping  hand." 

"But,  sweetheart  .  .  .  next  week  we  shall  be  in 
El  Bouira,  and  it's  a  thousand  to  one  against  our 
ever  staying  in  Constantine  again." 

"I  know  where  he  lives,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"A  letter  from  us  will  find  him — perhaps  help  him 
ever  so  much  when  he's  tempted  to  slip  back.  And 
if  you  should  meet  him,  I  want  you  to  be  kind — 
because  he  risked  his  life  for  me." 

A  spark  of  generosity  momentarily  flamed  in. 
Railsford's  heart. 

"I  didn't  realize  it  at  first,  Saada.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  admit  .  .  .  this  man  gave  you  back  to  me.'* 

"That's  what  it  amounts  to,"  she  replied,  sud- 


68         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

denly  becoming  practical.  "But  for  him  I  shouldn't 
be  here  now.  You  would  never  have  seen  me 
again." 

"Was  it  really  as  bad  as  all  that?" — in  a  hushed 
whisper,  and  his  clasp  tightened.  He  caught  the 
swift  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  as  she  laboured 
under  the  remembrance  of  the  dreadful  experience. 

"They  were  quite  mad,  Lance.  Most  of  them 
carried  knives.  One  brute  slashed  Mr.  Williams' 
arm.     I  bound  it  up  as  best  I  could  .  .  ." 

He  held  her  very  fast,  and  his  eyes  were  shining 
with  the  light  of  longing.  Never  before  had  she 
seemed  so  desirable.  The  warm  glow  of  passion 
which  her  nearness  always  brought  kindled  to  a 
white  heat  of  desire.  This  thought  of  hers  for  an- 
other man  was  torture  inconceivable.  He  hated 
to  think  that  those  little  brown  hands  had  soothed 
the  drug  fiend  in  his  pain.     His  face  was  lowered. 

"Dearest,"  he  whispered,  "you  do  belong  to  me 
•.  .  .  every  little  bit  of  you?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him.  "I've 
never  given  you  cause  to  feel  otherwise." 

"And  you  will  always  be  the  same?" 

"As  long  as  you  love  me,  yes." 

"You  know  I  love  you." 

Her  lips  tried  to  frame  the  answer  in  her  heart. 
Deep  down,  a  little  fear  was  stirring,  brought  to 
life  by  this  revelation  of  a  side  of  his  character 
hitherto  unsuspected  and  unknown.  Then  she 
said,  very  slowly, 


THE  SHADOW  59 

"I  believe  you  do,  Lance.  Only  sometimes" — • 
her  voice  breaking — "I  feel  afraid." 

He  put  her  a  little  away  from  him  and  regarded 
her  with  a  puzzled  expression  on  his  handsome 
face, 

"Afraid,  dearest  ...  of  what?" 

But  Saada  could  only  shake  her  small  head.  She 
could  not  tell  whence  they  came,  or  what  was  the 
nature  of  her  fears.  There  is  in  the  hearts  of 
women  an  instinct  which  affords  them  glimpses  into, 
the  unknown. 


CHAPTER  y 

WHISPERING   DEVILS 

A  WORLD  of  mud-baked  walls  whose  sole 
light  was  the  small  high  window  through 
which  heat  more  than  sun  penetrated  in  a 
perpetual  drowsy  stream  that  dulled  the  senses 
and  stifled  hope;  the  drear  drab  world  of  John 
Williams,  once  a  gentleman. 

He  stared  at  it  dully  in  the  fitful  glow  from  the 
candle  held  in  his  shaky  hand.  A  little  hour  of 
life,  born  by  the  presence  of  a  wonder-woman,  was 
gone;  he  was  back  again — crushed  by  the  walls, 
stifled  by  the  oozing  heat,  despairing  in  the  great 
moonlit  silence.  The  guttering  flame,  as  he  set  it 
on  the  stone  ledge  upon  which  she  had  sat,  smoth- 
ered the  bars  of  silver  that  struck  from  one  wall  to 
the  other.  He  stared  at  the  ledge — to  him  it  was 
an  altar  whereon  lay  the  deadest  of  dead  hopes. 

Tonight  had  shown  him  a  vision — the  vision  of 
a  woman's  heart  and  of  a  woman's  love  .  .  .  not 
the  carnal  affection  of  passion,  but  the  love  which 
is  so  divine  that  it  can  reach  down  and  lift  from 
the  mire  such  vileness  as  he.  He  sank  down,  his 
long  legs  crossed  under  him  in  the  fashion  he  had 
learned  from  the  Arabs  long  years  before,  and  tried 
to  fill  the  room  again  with  her  presence.    The 

60 


WHISPERING  DEVILS  61 

attempt  to  recall  her  physical  beauty,  the  glory  of 
hair  and  face  and  eyes,  the  graceful  j&gure,  was 
a  failure;  but  something  finer,  stronger,  remained 
.  .  .  the  music  of  her  voice,  the  sweetness  of  expres- 
sion, the  wistful  yearning  of  the  glance  bent  on 
him  in  hope. 

Why  should  he  think  thus  of  her?  Why  think 
of  her  at  all?  The  folly  of  it  struck  him  as  incon- 
gruous; he  laughed  derisively  at  himself,  and  the 
hand  that  long  had  toyed  with  the  box  in  his  belt 
lost  its  indecision.  He  snapped  back  the  lid  and 
stared  in  dreamy  fascination  at  the  little  heap  of 
black  pellets.  In  each  was  wrapped  the  power  of 
forgetfulness  .  .  .  the  pain  of  remembering  what 
and  who  he  once  had  been. 

Across  the  amber  glow  that  lay  upon  the  crude 
tiles  a  shadow  fell.  He  turned  with  a  start,  peering 
over  his  shoulder,  and  his  finger-nails  drummed 
shakily  upon  the  lid  of  the  box.  It  was  closed  now, 
and  the  shadow  gone.  Whose  was  it,  and  whence 
had  it  come? 

He  asked  the  question  a  score  of  times,  pacing 
his  lone  prison,  and  always  cheating  himself  of  the 
answer.  There  was  a  gnawing  in  his  body ;  an  ache 
of  soul,  too,  so  grievous  that  solace  lay  only  in 
oblivion.  Deep  down  within  him  something  stirred 
furtively ;  under  the  sun-tan  of  his  shrunken  cheeks 
a  pallor  crept  till  it  whitened  his  face  from  brow  to 
chin.  The  breath  of  the  drug  glowed  in  his  veins, 
the  voices  of  the  whispering  devils  were  already 


62         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

busy  in  his  ears  .  .  .  the  lid  slipped  back,  the  pellet 
touched  his  lips  .  .  .  and  at  the  touch  the  man  in 
him  awoke.  With  a  moan  like  the  cry  of  an  animal 
in  pain,  he  looked  back  and  once  more  saw  the 
shadow  on  the  floor;  but  even  as  he  stared  in 
horrified  amaze  the  dim  lines  faded:  the  nebulous 
shape  vanished  and  before  him.  stood  Saada  Medene. 
He  looked  into  a  face  radiant  with  a  great  love ;  saw 
her  arms  outstretched  in  pleading.  The  flame  of 
the  candle  guttered,  went  out,  and  across  the  white 
streamers  of  light  from  the  window  hurtled  the 
«mall  black  box  that  had  brought  him  to  ruin. 

With  a  groan  of  despair  Williams  dropped  back 
to  the  ledge  and  there  sat  like  a  flgure  carved  in 
wood,  his  mouth  resting  on  his  wrist.  When,  after 
a  while,  he  lifted  his  head  and  stared  with  childish, 
expectant  eyes  at  the  crazy  door,  as  if  some  power 
xiould  bring  again  the  girl  of  his  dreams,  the  marks 
of  his  strong  teeth  showed  against  the  sun-tan  of 
the  skin. 

The  silence,  the  hopelessness  of  his  position  be- 
came intolerable.  He  stood  up,  peering  at  the 
window  through  which  he  had  thrown  the  box ;  and 
then,  with  both  palms  pressed  against  his  eyes,  he 
began  again  that  ceaseless  pacing  of  his  prison. 
The  craving  for  movement  ebbed  and  flowed  as  the 
desire  for  the  drug  alternately  deepened  and  was 
conquered. 

At  times  he  made  unconscious  movements  with 
his  arms,  sagging  and  reeling  from  one  wall  to  an- 
other, and  beating  his  clenched  fists  upon  the  hard, 


WHISPERING  DEVILS  63 

dry  earth.  This  was  his  danger  hour,  and  he  knew 
it  .  .  .  the  contest  deliberately  taken  up  for  the 
sake  of  one  almost  a  stranger  to  him.  In  his  eyea 
was  a  dreadful  luminance :  the  torture  fires  of  the 
damned.  His  fingers  brushed  back  the  moist  hair 
from  his  clammy  forehead ;  it  was  wet  with  dew,  yet 
his  lips  were  parched  and  burning. 

For  an  hour  the  craving  held  him.  With  nothing 
to  aid  but  the  remembrance  of  a  woman's  touch 
and  a  woman's  voice,  he  struggled  on  till  physical 
exhaustion  drove  him  to  the  ledge  again.  But  now 
be  discovered  he  could  think  coherently,  frame 
one  thought  after  another  from  the  moment  of  his 
first  meeting  with  Saada  to  the  time  when  she  had 
clasped  his  fingers  in  farewell.  The  knowledge 
came  as  somewhat  of  a  shock.  He  laughed  ...  to 
him  it  seemed  a  foolish  laugh,  knowing  how  many 
leering  devils  the  shadows  held. 

A  girl's  frail  hand  lifted  him  from  the  slough 
of  despond ;  had  tried  to  place  his  faltering  feet  on: 
the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  that  reaches  to  self-re- 
spect again.  A  woman  had  done  this,  just  as  surely 
as  another  woman  had  drawn  him  along  the  way  to 
destruction.  To  him  the  East  had  never  been  a  trap 
baited  with  irresistible  allurements;  he  had  taken 
the  path  merely  to  find  forgetting.  Life  was  a 
boomerang;  it  had  recoiled  on  his  own  head  and 
brought  him  back  to  worse  than  the  starting-point, 
only  with  this  difference:  his  mind  and  soul  were 
prompting  him  to  think  of  a  good  instead  of  a  bad 
woman. 


64         A  DAUGHTEK  OF  THE  SANDS 

The  chain  of  reasoning  was  both  warped  and 
illogical.  Did  it  matter  very  much,  so  long  as  he 
reached  somehow  the  firm  ground  of  his  promise, 
to  try  for  her  sake,  as  well  as  his  own,  to  redeem 
himself?  Perhaps  she  had  not  said  "for  her  sake" ! 
Did  that  matter  very  much?  He  had  been  asked  to 
fight  for  a  principle— the  duty  of  man  to  cease 
from  defiling  the  image  in  which  God  had  created 
him. 

Shocked  by  the  realization  of  the  depths  to  which 
he  had  fallen,  and  to  the  height  which  he  felt 
within  his  power  to  reach,  he  poured  water  into  a 
cracked  basin  and  buried  his  face  and  hands  and 
arms  in  the  delicious  coolness.  The  night  seemed 
no  longer  hushed;  the  voice  of  the  girl  soothed 
and  caressed  his  ears  ...  he  had  ceased  to  be 
alone.  He  brushed  his  hair,  replaced  his  jacket 
and  mounted  unsteadily  to  the  flat  roof.  There 
was  a  glory  of  the  moon  as  well  as  of  the  stars.  He 
felt  both,  and  raised  his  arms  to  them,  stretching 
his  gaunt  frame  as  a  giant  who  long  has  slept.  At 
its  zenith  the  sickle  of  silver  blanched  the  white 
walls  and  threw  shadows  beyond  the  gently  nod- 
ding trees.  Far  from  the  city,  across  the  quiet  of 
the  fields  where  the  night  wind  made  a  gentle  mur- 
muring, a  dog,  guarding  the  entrance  to  a  Bedouin 
gourhi,  barked.  Then  came  the  shrill  cry  of  a 
jackal.     He  shivered  and  looked  away. 

Beyond  the  river  glowed  the  lights  of  the  hotel. 
In  the  wonderful  clearness  of  the  air  he  made  out 
the  balustraded  balcony,  and  against  it  .  .  .  black 


WHISPEEING  DEVILS  65 

shadows  like  the  forms  of  a  man  and  woman.  His 
mind  pictured  one  of  them  as  Saada  Medene;  did 
she  think  of  him  as  he  was  thinking  of  her? 

It  was  an  idle,  useless  thought,  but  tonight  he 
was  in  the  mood  to  reflect  on  anything  that  lifted 
him  away  from  himself  and  what  he  had  been. 
There  was  the  big  invisible  barrier — the  realiza- 
tion she  had  forced  upon  him  of  his  own  falling 
away.     To  keep  that  always  in  mind  .  .  . 

From  the  gloomy  doorway  of  the  street  below  a 
young  Arab  in  a  flowing  white  gJiandourah  moved 
leisurely  among  the  garbage  littering  the  cobble- 
stones, and  from  the  henna-stained  flute  at  his  lips 
streamed  a  cadence  of  sweet  sound.  Williams 
forgot  the  filth  beneath  his  feet,  yet  marvelled  that 
such  beauty  could  rise  from  a  quarter  so  squalid. 
Surely  this  should  typify  his  future  life: 

Out  of  the  depths  a  god  did  rise, 
To  tear  death's  veil  from  eyes 
That  long  the  darkness  held. 

He  had  read  the  lines  in  the  original  Greek  in 
far-off  Trinity  days,  when  life  for  him  had  been  a 
song.  There  came,  too,  a  fragrant  memory  of 
home  ...  of  a  grey-walled  house,  set  in  the  midst 
of  a  slumbrous  countryside;  of  summer  days  when 
there  was  more  sunlight  than  shadow  on  the  fields 
of  golden  corn,  and  a  horizon  faintly  edged  with 
fleecy  clouds.  England — far  off,  yet  brought  near 
by  his  fleeting  acquaintance  with  an  Arab  girl. 

From  one  end  of  the  parapet  he  moved  to  the 


66         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

other.  The  Roman  and  the  Eastern  city  stretched 
before  him,  proudly  majestic  on  its  impregnable 
rock,  scarred  yet  never  shattered  by  its  eighty 
sieges.  If  rock  could  stand  so  much,  how  vastly 
more  the  soul  of  a  man  lifted  from  its  vileness  by 
the  ennobling  influence  of  a  woman !  In  the  sweet 
coolness  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  blanched 
stones,  and  the  murmur  of  the  distant  river 
soothed  him  to  the  peaceful  sleep  of  an  innocent 
child. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DESTINY 

LANCE  RAILSFORD  found  the  Transat- 
lantique  Hotel  at  Constantine  all  that 
could  be  desired.  He  revelled  in  the  choice 
cuisine,  the  bright,  exhilarating  company,  the  at- 
tention to  creature  comfort  which  was  Monsieur 
Caret's  special  pride.  Yet  inevitably  the  time 
would  come  when  he  and  Saada  must  tear  them- 
selves away  and  start  for  El  Bouira.  The  method 
of  travel  promised  difficulties;  El  Bouira  lay  off 
the  regular  track  beyond  Biskra,  supplied  by  the 
Chemins  de  Fer  Algerie  and  the  excellent  service  of 
the  Transatlantique  Pullman  motors.  The  agent 
of  the  latter  company  came  to  the  rescue  on  hearing 
that  transport  by  camel  across  the  desert  had  fal- 
len through. 

"We  can  place  both  a  car  and  a  commissaire  at 
your  disposal,"  he  said,  mentioning  extremely 
moderate  fees.  "You  will  travel  via  Batna  and 
Biskra  and  complete  the  journey  in  five  days." 

Lance  went  back  to  Saada,  delighted  at  this 
good  turn  of  fortune's  wheel. 

"This  gives  us  four  more  days  in  this  delight- 
ful place,"  he  said,  as  he  joined  her  at  tea  on  the 
hotel  terrace.     "Time  enough  to  send  to  Tunis  for 

67 


68         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

your  father  and  to  get  him  to  stay  with  you  in  El 
Bouira  until  the  wedding." 

Saada  was  immensely  pleased  with  the  prospect. 
The  time  with  her  father  in  Tunis  had  seemed  all 
too  short,  and  now  that  Mrs.  Railsford  was  no 
longer  there  to  chaperone  her,  it  was  essential 
some  one  besides  Lance  should  go  with  her  on  the 
long  journey  across  the  desert.  Accordingly,  she 
telegraphed  to  Tunis  and  received  a  reply  saying 
that  Sheikh  Medene  would  join  her  the  following 
day. 

They  were  to  leave  on  the  Saturday,  taking  the 
road  beyond  Ain  Yagout,  where  Lance  very  much 
wanted  to  see  the  remarkable  Medrassen  monu- 
ment supposed  to  be  the  tomb  of  a  famous  Numid- 
ian  king,  to  Batna,  the  ancient  rampart  city  of 
the  Third  Augustan  Legion,  where  the  wonder- 
ful Roman  ruins  of  Lambaesis  still  stand,  and  so 
through  the  beautiful  mountain  and  valley  scenery 
of  Oued-Ksour  to  the  oasis  of  El  Kantara.  The 
great  plain  of  El  Outaya  beyond  would  bring  them 
round  the  corner  of  the  last  range  of  craggy 
heights  to  Biskra,  the  Queen  of  the  Desert. 

To  Saada  the  journey  appealed  immensely — a 
return  to  the  scenes  of  her  happy  girlhood's 
years.  But  before  she  left  she  wanted  very  much 
to  see  Williams  again. 

Lance  himself — possibly  to  make  recompense 
for  his  unreasonable  outburst — had  expressed  a 
desire  to  go  with  her  to  thank  Williams  for  his 
gallantry.     Saada  no  longer  felt  afraid  as  they 


DESTINY  69 

plunged  into  the  network  of  cream-walled  streets 
heavy  with  the  odours  bred  by  every  Eastern  town. 
Her  terror  had  been  confined  to  the  small  cur- 
tained room  in  which  Halek,  son  of  Hadji  Ahmed, 
had  dared  to  make  love  to  her. 

Memories  which  had  haunted  her  since  that 
night  flooded  back  as  they  probed  further  into  the 
labyrinthine  ways  which  Williams  had  made  his 
home.  Was  it  only  the  fickleness  of  a  woman's 
love  that  had  brought  him  there,  away  from  the 
world  of  decent  men,  to  the  vicious  haunts  of  the 
Orient?  She  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  impudent 
painted  faces,  leering  at  them  from  cool  recesses 
made  attractive  with  coloured  hangings  and  tubs 
of  flowering  plants.  There  were  other  places  less 
alluring,  where  vice  in  its  naked  reality  was 
flaunted  without  shame.  Yet  through  it  all  her 
tender  womanliness  felt  more  than  pity  for  this 
man  sunk  beyond  the  ken  of  his  own  people. 

She  hung  a  little  more  closely  on  Lance's  arm 
and  turned  a  questioning  face  to  his. 

^'I've  been  wondering,  dear,  if  it  would  be  pos- 
sible for  you  to  flnd  something  for  Mr.  Williams  to 
do.  I'm  sure,  if  only  he  could  get  away  from  all 
this,  he  would  be  glad  of  any  chance  to  stand  on 
his  feet  again." 

Railsford  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"My  dear,  it  isn't  that  I  won't  help  the  poor 
chap.  You'll  find  when  you  get  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter  he  won't  let  you  help  him.  The  last  thing 
those  poor  devils  ever  dream  of  is  work.     By  the 


70         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

time  a  fellow's  doped  the  best  years  of  his  life 
away  he  doesn't  possess  enough  backbone  to  sell 
matches.    Now  where  are  w^e?" 

Saada  had  stopped  to  take  her  bearings  by  the 
tall  square  tower  of  the  mosque  of  Djama  Salak 
Bey. 

"That  is  the  house — over  there.  I  know  it  by 
the  small  square  window  in  the  top  storey." 

Lance  nodded  and  went  briskly  forward  to  the 
entrance — a  recessed  door  studded  with  copper- 
headed  nails  beneath  a  horseshoe  arch  of  carved 
stone.  It  opened  into  a  tiny  patio  with  a  balcony 
supported  by  marble  columns  with  Corinthian 
capitals — Arab  loot  brought  from  a  Roman  city  in 
the  plains.  A  wizened  little  woman  in  a  thread- 
bare mahalfa,  spotlessly  clean,  rose  from  the  dish 
of  COU8-COUS  which  she  was  tending  at  a  brazier, 
and  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  at  sight  of  the  un- 
believers. 

Saada  stilled  her  fears  by  saluting  her  in  her 
own  tongue,  and  the  wrinkled  features  expanded 
in  a  glad  smile  that  one  so  beautiful  and  richly 
dressed  should  have  honoured  her  humble  abode 
with  her  presence. 

"The  blessing  of  Allah  be  upon  thee  and  thine 
for  ever!"  she  mumbled,  touching  her  forehead 
with  her  hand  and  then  kissing  her  finger-tips. 
"May  riches  come  to  thee  to  the  end  of  thy  days, 
and  Mahomet  the  Camel  Driver,  the  friend  of  the 
poor,  guide  thee  from  the  uprising  to  the  going 
down  of  the  sun." 


DESTINY  71 

"Great  joy  also  to  thee,  O  true  follower  of  the 
Prophet!"  replied  Saada.  "It  is  an  honoured 
privilege  that  we  may  enter  thy  house." 

Extravagant  compliments  having  thus  been  ex- 
changed, the  woman  drove  the  young  kid  and  the 
fowls  from  the  combined  living  and  bedroom,  and 
intimating  that  she  was  about  to  partake  of  her 
evening  meal,  began  to  spread  mats  for  them  on 
the  floor. 

Saada,  however,  got  over  the  obligation  by  pro- 
ducing a  small  wad  of  five-franc  notes  which  she 
pressed  into  the  skinny  palm.     Then  she  said, 

"We  wish  to  see  the  rhou/mi  who  lives  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  Will  you  give  us  permission  to  go 
up?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  come  too  late.  The  Englishman  you 
seek  has  gone  away.  I  am  sad  and  afflicted,  be- 
cause he  has  been  to  me,  so  despised  of  men,  almost 
as  a  son.  For  the  third  time  at  the  Feast  of 
Rhamadan  has  he  honoured  me  with  his  presence ; 
even  as  a  son,  according  to  the  word  of  the 
Prophet,  honoureth  his  own  mother.  But  two 
nights  since  he  shook  from  his  feet  the  dust  of  my 
dwelling,  and  Ramela  will  see  him  no  more." 

Saada  kept  back  the  sigh  that  rose  involuntarily 
to  her  lips. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  has  gone?" 

The  other  shook  her  head. 

"Neither  where  he  has  gone  nor  why  he  went 
away.    He  appeared  in  great  trouble,  sick  both  in 


72  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

mind  and  body.  Because  the  hands  of  a  woman 
had  touched  his  eyes,  he  was  afflicted  with  great 
misery." 

Saada  knew  that  Ramela  was  referring  to  her. 

"You  know,  O  daughter,"  she  went  on,  "that  for 
many  moons  this  unhappy  Infidel  had  tempted 
the  wrath  of  Allah  the  Great  One  by  taking  that 
which  is  forbidden  both  by  the  Mahommedan  and 
the  Christian  law." 

"I  know  he  took  haschish,"  the  girl  admitted 
unhappily,  "but  he  promised  never  to  touch  it 
again." 

The  old  woman  looked  wise. 

"Does  not  the  Koran  say,  O  pretty  one,  that  to 
please  a  woman  a  man  will  lie  to  his  god?  Even 
so  has  the  rhoumi  done  to  you.  But  stay:  I  am 
unmindful'  of  my  word  to  him  who  was  like  a  son. 
Is  this  your  name?"  and  in  the  thin  film  of  sand 
that  lay  upon  the  courtyard  flags  at  the  entrance  to 
her  dwelling,  she  traced  with  her  finger  in  Arabic 
characters  the  name  of  Saada  Medene. 

"I  am  Saada  Medene,"  replied  the  girl.  "Why 
do  you  a-sk?" 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  but  moved  to  the 
high  wooden  bed  with  its  corner-posts  of  red  and 
gold  wood  and  its  silken  canopy  surmounted  by  a 
bevelled  mirror  beneath  a  flaming  crescent.  The 
claw-like  hands  groped  beneath  the  canopy,  and 
from  the  folds  of  gauze-like  material  she  took  an 
envelope  and  on  it  was  inscribed  in  a  neat,  firm 
hand  Saada's  name. 


DESTINY  73 

"He  said  that  one  day  you  would  come/'  the  old 
woman  muttered.  "I  was  to  give  you  this  .  .  . 
and  when  your  eyes  have  read  it  the  heart  that  is 
in  you  will  understand." 

Railsford  apparently  took  no  interest  in  the 
conversation.  Having  taken  stock  of  the  Arab 
woman's  room,  he  had  found,  in  a  cupboard-like 
place  without,  the  gaudily  painted  sepulchre  of  a 
marabout  or  holy  man,  a  fantastically  crude  ar- 
rangement resembling  an  old-fashioned  cradle 
suspended  between  wooden  supports.  Evidently 
the  aged  woman  thought  highly  of  the  guest  who 
honoured  her  house  with  his  dead  presence,  for 
she  had  covered  the  coffin  with  a  silk  cloth  em- 
broidered in  gold  thread  with  verses  from  the 
Koran. 

"Don't  bother  any  more  about  that  fellow," 
Lance  called  good-naturedly,  "Come  and  look  at 
the  last  resting-place  of  a  marabout.  I  don't  sup- 
pose you've  ever  seen  such  a  thing  before," 

And  then  he  checked  himself  abruptly,  remem- 
bering with  a  shock  that  Saada  herself  was  of  the 
same  race  and  blood  as  this  revered  son  of  Islam 
who  had  found  his  last  resting-place  among  the 
goats  and  fowls  in  a  backyard  of  Constantine. 
Of  late  he  had  been  prone  to  lose  sight  of  Saada's 
nationality;  it  had  not  struck  him  nearly  as  for- 
cibly as  when  they  were  in  England,  probably  be- 
cause there  it  was  a  very  uncommon  thing  to  meet 
Eastern  people. 

Apparently  she  had  not  caught  his  last  remark. 


74         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

She  came  towards  him,  looking  troubled,  with  John 
Williams'  letter  in  her  hand. 

"We  shall  never  see  him  again.  We've  come  too 
late,"  she  said  gravely. 

Railsford's  glance  went  to  the  sheet  of  common 
paper,  and  he  read, 

**My  deab  Miss  Medene, 

"When  you  get  this — I  shall  have  gone.  I  tried  to 
continue  the  struggle  but  found  it  too  much  for  me. 
Something  tells  me  that  you  will  try  to  see  me  again — • 
to  test  for  yourself  the  sincerity  of  my  promise.  Hav- 
ing failed,  I  find  myself  without  the  courage  to  face  you. 

"For  your  big  unselfish  effort  to  save  me  I  thank  you 
most  gratefully.  Fate  has  been  too  strong:  the  help  I 
needed  came  just  a  little  too  late.  Try  to  think  of  me 
still  with  some  compassion ;  I  shall  treasure  the  thought 
to  the  journey's  end. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 
"John  Williams." 

"Well,  that  settles  it.  My  prophecy  is  justi- 
fied," exclaimed  Lance,  refolding  the  letter  and 
handing  it  back.  "You  can't  help  such  people, 
because  they  won't  make  an  effort  to  help  them- 
selves. Tell  the  old  lady  if  ever  the  poor  chap 
should  show  up  again,  we  looked  in  to  thank  him 
for  all  he  did  on  your  behalf;  and  if  at  any  time 
money  will  help  ..." 

Saada  turned  away,  her  heart  too  heavy  to  say 
more.  She  could  not  tell  why  Williams'  failure 
hurt  her  so  deeply — unless,  of  course,  it  was  be- 


DESTINY  75 

cause  she  owed  her  life  to  him.  Under  the  pres- 
ent stress  of  emotion  she  had  no  desire  to  analyse 
her  feelings.  She  left  a  gift  of  money  on  the  Arab 
bed  and  passed  out  into  the  busy  life  of  the  na- 
tive quarter. 

Straight-limbed,  dark-skinned  men  and  fat 
women  devoid  of  the  veiling  adjar  slithered  along 
in  heelless  shoes;  not  a  few  turned  their  faces 
to  the  wall  as  the  accursed  Christian  defiled  the 
air  with  his  presence.  A  water-carrier,  in  filthy 
rags,  jostled  Saada's  shoulder  with  his  bulging 
skins,  and  a  pock-marked  man  riding  his  over- 
burdened ass  edged  her  into  the  garbage  of  the 
gutter.  These  were  her  people  .  .  .  and  Williams 
had  fallen  lower  than  they. 

The  blazing  sun  beat  fiercely  down  and  drew  a 
haze  of  mistiness  over  her  eyes;  the  pulsing  heat 
and  riot  of  movement,  colour,  and  sound  were 
blotted  out;  she  was  alone  once  more  in  a  bare- 
walled  room,  clasping  the  hand  of  the  man  who 
had  saved  her  life. 

She  picked  her  way  blindly  at  Lance's  side 
through  the  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats  with  which 
the  street  was  congested.  A  little  crowd  gaped 
open-mouthed  at  a  wandering  story-teller  in  a 
scarlet  turban  and  blue  hernous.  Coins  were  fall- 
ing into  his  grimy  palm.  At  the  entrance  to  a 
cafe  black-faced  men  from  the  South  were  beat- 
ing on  skin  drums,  and  scantily-dressed,  sensuous- 
limbed  girls  were  twisting  their  shining  bodies 
into    the   most   amazing   contortions.     Yesterday 


76         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Williams  had  belonged  to  this  life — had  formed 
part  of  it;  now  .  .  . 

She  shut  out  the  picture  and  was  glad  when 
they  struck  into  the  clean  sunshine  of  the  Place  de 
Nemours.  Somehow  she  was  beginning  to  hate 
and  dread  the  East  to  which  she  belonged.  It 
was  easy  now  to  understand  Helen  Railsford's 
secret  antipathy.  She  stole  a  sidelong,  unquiet 
glance  at  Lance's  good-looking  face.  It  was  set 
in  contemptuous  lines,  the  silent  disapproval  of 
all  that  he  had  witnessed.  Saada  felt  afraid  lest 
the  happiness  she  had  hoped  to  give  him  should 
prove  as  great  a  chimera  as  her  faith  in  John 
Williams  had  turned  out  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SHEIKH    MEDENE 

IT  was  late,  and  Constantine  gleamed  and 
scintillated  like  a  jewelled  crown  against  the 
purple  canopy  of  the  night  sky,  when  the 
slow-moving  train  rumbled  over  the  El  Kantara 
bridge  and  drew  into  the  dimly-lit  station. 

Saada  had  driven  down  in  the  hotel  motor  to 
welcome  her  father.  As  the  faintly-illumined 
carriages,  packed  for  the  most  part  with  standing 
Arabs  and  perspiring  soldiers  destined  for  the 
Casbai,  perched  like  an  eagle's  eerie  on  the  high 
point  south  of  the  town,  flitted  past,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  round,  good-natured  face  beaming 
at  her  through  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  and  waved 
her  small  hand  to  Yakoub,  son  of  Abd-el-Hak,  her 
father's  confidential  servant  and  odd  man. 

She  had  known  and  loved  Yakoub — who  de- 
lighted more  than  anything  else  in  his  self-styled 
English  title  of  Yors  Truley — ever  since  she  was 
quite  a  small  child.  Sixteen  years  before.  Sheikh 
Medene,  then  a  prosperous  Arab,  had  bought  the 
man  from  a  Bedouin  caravan-owner  who  had 
treated  him  cruelly,  and  on  asking  his  name  Ya- 
koub had  replied,  with  his  fingers  pressed  to  his 

77 


78         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

forehead,  "Yors  Tniley,  my  lord,"  and  Yors 
Truley  he  had  remained  ever  since. 

He  lowered  the  window  and  let  down  an  im- 
mense armful  of  luggage.  Then  with  much  puff- 
ing and  blowing  he  waddled  to  the  platform  and 
bowed  low  before  his  young  mistress,  his  baggy 
aeroul  causing  him  to  look  quite  as  broad  as  he 
was  tall. 

"With  rev'rince  and  much  pleasureness,  Yors 
Truley,  a  wretched  but  fortunit  child  of  the 
Prohpet,  salutes  the  daughter  of  Sheikh  Medene  his 
master  and  a  Great  One  of  the  Earth,  yiss,"  he 
said  in  a  sing-song  voice.  "May  Allah  smile 
kindly  upon  her — and  bring  some  one  more  worthy 
than  this  worm  to  move  the  baggages." 

Saada  laughed  and  extended  her  hand,  which 
Yakoub  kissed. 

"The  man  will  see  to  the  baggage,  Yakoub. 
Please  take  me  to  my  father,"  she  said. 

But  already  Sheikh  Medene,  a  frail  little  man 
in  a  green  turban  and  a  white  silken  bernov^,  on 
which  gleamed  a  number  of  French  and  Tunisian 
orders,  was  coming  towards  them.  His  faded, 
kindly  eyes  lit  warmly  at  sight  of  the  young  girl, 
who  kissed  him  first  on  each  cheek  and  then  on  the 
forehead,  and  in  return  he  took  her  bare  arm  and 
reverently  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Indeed,  this  is  the  great  hour  of  my  life,  to 
see  thee  once  again,  my  dearest  jewel,"  he  said, 
holding  her  a  little  way  from  him  and  regarding 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  79 

her  affectionately.  "Your  telegram  came  as  a 
most  pleasant  surprise." 

Out  of  deference  to  her  he  generally  addressed 
her  in  English. 

Saada  led  him  to  the  waiting  car. 

"In  a  way,  father,  Mrs.  Kailsford's  leaving  was 
fortunate.  I  couldn't  stay  at  El  Bouira  alone 
with  Lance,  so  he  kindly  suggested  you  should  be 
with  me  until  the  wedding." 

The  old  man  gravely  inclined  his  head. 

"That  was  a  most  kind  thought.  I  reverence 
him  for  thinking  of  an  old  man.  Now  tell  me 
—you  are  quite  happy?" 

They  were  drawing  down  the  long  road  to  the 
town,  with  Yakoub  sitting  up  very  straight  behind 
them,  his  arms  folded  after  the  manner  of  the 
servants  who  attend  his  Excellency  the  Governor 
when  he  drives  through  the  streets  of  Tunis. 

"Oh,  quite!"  the  girl  answered,  after  a  short 
pause.  "Lance  is  very  good  to  me,  and  I'm  sure 
we  shall  have  a  happy  married  life.  But,  father," 
glancing  up  into  the  once-handsome  face  on  which 
age  had  set  its  seal  in  deep  lines,  "you  are  not 
looking  so  well  as  when  I  left  you  in  Tunis." 

The  kindly  almond-shaped  eyes  took  on  a 
shadow  of  sadness,  the  gentle  mouth  quivered. 

"Allah  the  All- Wise  and  All-Powerful  has  de- 
creed that  these  unworthy  shoulders  of  mine  shall 
still  be  heavily  burdened,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"It  is  the  price  one  pays  in  old  age  for  the  sins 


80  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

of  youth.  Through  suffering  alone  the  heart  of 
man  learns  wisdom.  Let  that  pass,  light  of  my 
eyes;  the  French  Government  bears  heavily  upon 
me  for  taxes.     Ever  I  am  becoming  a  poorer  man." 

She  looked  away,  troubled. 

"I  only  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  help.  But 
as  the  wife  of  a  comparatively  poor  man  I  shall 
be  able  to  do  but  little  to  repay  all  your  good- 
ness to  me." 

"Dear  child" — the  frail  hand  closed  over  hers 
— "I  look  for  only  one  reward — to  see  you  happy. 
My  own  trials  are  but  the  visitations  from  the 
Most  High.  Could  I  but  know  that  always  a 
smile  will  light  on  your  face " 

"Dear,  I  have  found  happiness.  My  husband 
will  be  everything  to  me,  even  as  I  shall  strive  to 
be  all  in  all  to  him." 

"But  your  husband's  mother,  of  the  shrewd 
eyes  and  double-edged  tongue  .  .  .  does  she  wish 
you  well?" 

The  colour  drained  swiftly  from  Saada's 
cheeks. 

"Oh,  I  think  so,  father.  Generally  she  is  very 
kind;  though  sometimes  I  imagine  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  was  lost  in  the  throaty  roar  of  the  car  as  it 
toiled  the  rise. 

"Well,  what  do  you  imagine?"  asked  the  sheikh 
insistently.  The  tired  eyes  had  become  in  an  in- 
stant pin-pricks  of  flame. 

"Perhaps  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  so,  when  she 
is   not   here,"    the    girl   went   on.     "But   I   have 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  81 

thought  that  she  resents  .  .  .  her  son  marrying 
a  woman  of  another  race." 

"So!  So!  I  had  feared  it!"  sinking  back 
against  the  cushions.  "The  natural  prejudice  of 
the  West  against  all  that  is  Eastern.  Perhaps 
it  is  inevitable;  they  are  different  peoples.  Has 
she  said  aught  to  you?" 

To  no  one  else  in  the  world  could  Saada  have 
made  the  confession. 

"Not  to  me,  dear;  but  I  fancy  more  than  once 
she  has  raised  objections  with  Lance.  I  myself 
went  over  all  the  ground,  put  every  obstacle  in 
his  way — when  he  first  proposed  to  me.  I  do 
realize  that  there  are  vast  differences  between 
the  English  and  the  Arabs;  I  realize  that,  more 
and  more  each  day,  now  that  I  am  back  again  in 
the  land  of  my  own  people." 

A  sigh  drifted  from  him.  He  averted  his 
glance  and  appeared  to  be  watching  the  hurry- 
ing night-life  of  the  town. 

Then,  very  gravely,  he  a^ked, 

"Do  you  feel — very  much — that  these  .  .  .  are 
your  own  people?" 

Her  head  rose  suddenly;  she  shot  him  a  sur- 
prised glance. 

"Why,  what  a  strange  question  to  ask!  Of 
course,  when  I  see  the  clear  sky,  the  burning 
sun,  the  colour  and  picturesqueness  everywhere, 
I  know  that  I  am  back  again  in  the  land  where 
I  was  bom." 

"But  the  people — ^the  people?"  he  repeated. 


82  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

The  slender  shapely  shoulders  rose  and  fell. 
The  expression  on  the  sensitive  mouth  presaged 
a  disavowal. 

"I — I  must  confess  I  am  disappointed,"  she 
said  gravely.  "To  me  they  appear  indolent  and 
dirty,  with  no  desire  in  life  but  to  sleep  the  hours 
away.  The  girls  seem  to  live  only  for  love-mak- 
ing and  fine  clothes;  the  men  drink  and  smoke 
and  gamble  from  sunrise  ta  sunset.  .  .  .  Mind 
you,  father,  I'm  speaking  only  of  what  I've  seen." 

He  looked  troubled. 

"I  fear  it  is  all  only  too  true.  Except  for  the 
better  classes,  there  is  little  real  work  done. 
And  does  not  the  Koran  rightly  say,  'The  hand 
that  goes  not  willingly  to  labour  takes  full  toll 
of  soul-destroying  pleasure?'  This  is  the  curse 
which  has  fallen  on  our  land  since  the  rhoumis 
came  and  took  possession.  We  see  their  follies 
and  strive  to  imitate  them;  strong  wine,  for- 
bidden by  the  Prophet,  becomes  our  drink,  and 
eyes  that  once  were  famed  through  all  the  world 
for  brilliance  now  grow  dim  through  this  accursed 
thing.  .  .  .  But  we  come  back  to  the  mother  of 
your  future  husband." 

"She  has  returned  to  England  to  be  at  the  bed- 
side of  a  dying  relative." 

"True,  true.  But  I  am  thinking — is  it  possible 
her  son  is  sharing  in  secret  the  view  she  holds?" 

Saada  shook  her  small  head. 

"I  am  certain  he  does  not.     Lance  made  his 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  83 

choice  of  his  own  free  will  after  every  objection  I 
could  put  forward  had  been  raised.  Once  only 
has  he  referred  to  his  mother's  attitude.  .  .  ." 

"So — the  seed  is  already  there?" 

She  smiled  confidently. 

"I  offered  to  release  him.  He  will  not  let  me 
go." 

"But  in  England — when  you  return?" 

"In  England,"  she  replied  honestly,  "I  was  made 
to  feel  my  position.  People  who  knew  of  my  Arab 
blood  looked  down  on  me.  Their  doors  were  shut 
in  my  face.  For  this  reason  alone  I  was  glad  to 
return  to  Tunis." 

"One  day  you  will  go  back?" 

Her  lips  trembled. 

"I  suppose  I  shall.  Everything  depends  on 
Lance's  work.  He  might  be  posted  to  the  Foreign 
Office  again.     In  that  case " 

"You  will  be  at  an  unfair  disadvantage." 

"Why  unfair?"  she  asked  quickly. 

Sheikh  Medene  stroked  his  white  beard. 

"I  ought  not  perhaps  to  have  said  that.  The  re- 
sponsibility is  your  husband's.  If  he  loves  you 
for  yourself " 

"I'm  sure  he  does.  The  difference  in  blood  will 
not  count  with  him.  Mrs.  Eailsford's  objections — 
such  as  they  were — he  overruled;  Ah,  here  we  are 
at  the  hotel ;  you  must  be  very  tired." 

The  sheikh  rose  heavily  on  a  gold-mounted  cane. 

"We  will  talk  further  of  this  another  time — 


84  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

before  your  wedding-day,"  he  said  enigmatically. 
"Allah  has  been  good  to  give  me  this  chance  of 
seeing  you  before  you  go  to  your  husband." 

Railsford  was  standing  in  the  vestibule  beyond 
the  short  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  hotel  terrace 
when  the  car  bringing  Saada,  Sheikh  Medene,  and 
his  servant  drew  into  the  circle  of  radiance  cast 
by  the  overhead  lights. 

A  number  of  young  fellows — two  from  the  Eng- 
lish bank,  one  from  the  British  Engineering  Com- 
pany of  North  Africa,  and  one  attached  to  the  For- 
eign OflSce  Intelligence  Department — had  strolled 
up  from  the  town  to  smoke  and  chat  an  idle  hour 
away  before  dinner. 

The  hum  of  conversation  between  them  ceased  as 
Yakoub,  pompously  self-important  in  his  master's 
interests,  waved  imperiously  to  the  little  group  of 
servants  clustered  on  the  steps. 

"Now,  fellahs — yoh ;  mak'  way  dah  for  one  ob  the 
great  wans  ob  dis  earth,  indeed.  Get  you  some 
carpet  for  set  down;  dis  gravel  am  wet,  and  the 
Sheikh  ob  Medene,  inshallah,  will  mek  de  Pilgrim- 
age agen,  and  say  Fatihaho  only  for  dem  that 
reckernize  him  greatness.  This  is  the  word  ob 
Yors  Truley,  humble  servant  to  his  mos'  illustr'ous 
master.     Tek  that  luggidge,  bye." 

Yakoub  jumped  down  amid  a  general  flurry  of 
excitement  and  drove  the  hotel  servants  like  sheep 
before  him  to  do  his  master's  bidding.  In  his  eyes, 
Sheikh  Medene  was  of  more  importance  than  the 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  85 

Bey  of  Tunis,  and  just  as  important,  to  Yakoub, 
was  this  unique  opportunity  to  air  his  uneompar- 
able  English. 

Purkiss,  of  the  Credit  Foncier  d'Algerie,  turned 
to  the  aristocratic-looking  man  beside  him  and' 
wrinkled  his  brows. 

"Good  Lord,  Barville,  what  sort  of  circus  is  it — 
a  page  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment 
or  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  comic  opera?  The  old 
gentleman  looks  as  though  he  might  have  stepped 
out  of  ancient  Baghdad;  the  fat  bespectacled  boy 
from  the  stage  door  of  the  Savoy  .  .  .  and 
the  girl  .  .  .  my  God!  she's  pretty!  Who  is 
she?" 

Railsford,  moving  towards  the  entrance,  caught 
only  the  end  of  Purkiss'  remark.  He  was  in  time 
to  hear  Barville's  reply, 

"The  lady  must  be  Miss  Medene,  Railsford's 
-fiancee.  The  sheikh,  I  believe,  is  her  father;  isn't 
that  so,  Railsford?" 

Lance  reddened.  He  had  been  careful  to  keep 
Saada's  nationality  a  profound  secret.  Yet  some- 
how an  inkling  of  the  truth  had  leaked  out.  Be- 
fore he  could  put  in  a  word  the  middle-aged  man  on 
the  edge  of  the  group  had  taken  Barville  up. 

"Nonsense,  Sir  Louis,"  he  said  in  a  guarded 
manner.  "That  girl  belongs  to  Constantino.  I've 
seen  her  myself  in  the  native  quarter.  It's  hardly 
the  thing,  you  know,  to  suggest  Railsford  is  engaged 
to  a  lady  of  colour." 

Lance  could  no  longer  remain  silent.    As  the 


86         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

sheikh  came  forward,  leaning  on  Saada's  arm,  he 
turned  to  his  friends. 

"I'm  afraid  you  fellows  must  excuse  me.  Miss 
Medene  has  been  to  the  station  to  meet  her  father. 
He  is  very  old,  and  must  be  tired  after  the  long 
journey.  Perhaps  you  will  come  along  to  dine  be- 
fore we  go.  What  about  Friday — say  at  half -past 
seven?" 

Saada  had  been  halted  in  the  midst  of  a  barri- 
cade of  luggage  and  was  issuing  orders  to  Yakoub. 

Barville  eyed  her  frigidly  through  his  monocle. 

"Sorry,  Railsford,  but  I've  promised  to  feed 
young  Bivington  at  the  club  on  Friday." 

"And  I  am  leaving  for  Algiers  by  the  morning 
train,"  interjected  Purkiss,  lying  easily. 

The  others  excused  themselves  with  equal  clumsi- 
ness. For  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in  North 
Africa  Railsford  experienced  a  sense  of  shame. 
He  had  always  half  feared  the  fact  of  his  being  en- 
gaged to  a  native  girl  would  bring  about  social 
ostracism,  yet,  now  that  he  was  faced  with  the  fact, 
the  prospect  alarmed  him. 

He  bade  his  friends  good-night,  and  turned  away, 
making  no  endeavour  to  introduce  them  to  Saada, 

Purkiss  looked  back  and  grinned  over  his 
shoulder  as  Sheikh  Medene  greeted  his  future  son- 
in-law  in  truly  Eastern  fashion  by  kissing  him  on 
each  cheek. 

"Shade  of  Hermes,  but  some  fellows  do  ask  for 
trouble !"  he  muttered,  falling  in  at  Barville's  side. 
"I  can  understand  his  falling  in  love  with  the  girl 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  87 

— no  man  with  blood  in  his  veins  could  help  it  .  .  . 
but  as  to  marrying  her — ugh!" 

"And  to  take  on  the  family !"  Sir  Louis  stared 
blankly  at  his  companion.  "Would  you  dream  any 
fellow  could  be  such  an  unutterable  fool?  And  I 
believe,  too,  he's  got  something  of  a  position  out 
here." 

"Not  such  a  position  as  he'll  have  when  his  uncle 
dies."  Purkiss  was  official  news-gatherer  to  the 
little  English  colony  in  Constantine.  "Thorburn, 
of  the  Lyonnais,  who  was  up  with  him  at  Cam- 
bridge, told  me  only  yesterday  that  when  the  old 
man  pegs  out,  Railsford  comes  into  nearly  half  a 
million,  and  one  of  the  finest  seats  in  the  home 
counties." 

"An-d  yet,"  scoffed  Barville,  pausing  ta  light  a 
cigarette,  "he  ignores  the  hundreds  of  nice  English 
girls  and  commits  the  unpardonable  sin  of  touching 
the  colour  streak." 

Purkiss  looked  serious. 

"I  feel  more  sorry  for  the  girl  than  for  him.  At 
least  he  goes  into  the  business  open-eyed;  she 
doesn't  dream  what's  in  store  for  her.  Where  are 
they  bound  for — after  the  marriage,  I  mean?" 

Carew  Hopson,  who  had  hitherto  kept  silence, 
broke  in  on  the  discussion. 

"To  El  Bouira,  of  all  places.  He's  going  to  be 
the  new  Vice-Consul  there  .  .  .  and  of  course,  so 
far  as  the  English-speaking  community  is  con- 
cerned, it's  about  as  select  as  it  can  be.  General 
Bravington's  wife  queens  it;  you  can  imagine  the 


88         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

sort  of  reception  an  Arab  girl  married  to  an  Eng- 
lishman will  get." 

Barville  shook  hi"s  head. 

"It's  a  mistake,  a  colossal  mistake.  I  never  yet 
knew  a  case  to  turn  out  satisfactorily — especially 
when  the  man  is  in  a  public  position.  Either  he 
has  to  hide  the  woman  away  or  clear  out  himself. 
In  this  case  ...  I  shouldn't  blame  him  for  stick- 
ing to  the  girl.     She  is  very  beautiful." 

Purkiss  laughed. 

"I'm  afraid  Railsford's  not  built  that  way.  He's 
lost  his  head — and  senses — to  a  pretty  face  and  fine 
figure.  When  the  edge  of  passion  wears  off  he'll 
make  some  excuse  to  get  out  of  his  bad  bargain 
.  .  .  pension  the  old  man  to  take  the  daughter 
back  with  him  to  Tunis,  or  wherever  he  comes 
from." 

"For  myself,"  interrupted  Hopson,  as  they 
struck  down  the  high-walled  road  towards  the 
town,  "I  should  say  the  girl's  half  English — the 
product  of  a  mixed  marriage,  an  Arab  father  and 
a  white  mother." 

"You  can't  tell,"  said  Purkiss  dogmatically. 
"Because  she  lacks  the  slightly  slanting  eyes  and 
the  Semitic  nose  of  the  true  Arab  is  no  criterion. 
I've  seen  natives  in  the  Kroumerie — in  Ain  Dra- 
ham,  to  be  precise — as  fair  as  ever  came  out  of 
Devonshire.  Descendants  of  the  Romans,  no 
doubt;  and  at  every  fourth  or  fifth  generation  the 
Western  blood  comes  to  the  top. 

Barville  was  thinking  of  sweet -faced  Saada. 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  89 

"Anyway,  it  seems  jolly  rough  on  the  girl ;  that's 
all  I  can  say." 

And  there  the  discussion  ended. 

Railsford,  however,  was  almost  as  intimately 
conscious  as  though  he  had  been  present.  He  had 
caught  the  changed  expressions  of  their  faces,  the 
sudden  frigidity  of  manner,  scented  the  lameness  of 
the  excuses  why  they  should  not  meet  again.  The 
thought  haunted  him  for  the  rest  of  that  night; 
made  him  more  susceptible  than  he  otherwise 
might  have  been  to  the  surprised  looks  directed  at 
them  over  dinner  by  the  other  guests  The  raised 
brows,  the  interchange  of  glances,  the  hush  which, 
fell  upon  the  diners  when  Saada,  followed  by  the 
sheikh  in  his  flowing  white  robes  and  rich  turban, 
took  their  places  at  the  table,  told  him  more  plainly 
than  any  words  that  the  sending  for  the  old  Arab 
had  been  an  act  of  colossal  indiscretion. 

He  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  blame  Saada; 
he  put  the  burden,  subconsciously  and  unreason- 
ably, on  his  mother,  who  had  led  him  into  such 
an  impasse. 

Through  the  long  formal  meal — Monsieur  the 
proprietor  had  taken  great  pains  to  get  prepared 
a  special  cou-s-cous  in  honour  of  his  distinguished 
visitor — Lance  ate  and  drank  hardly  anything. 
Instead  he  relapsed  into  a  moody  silence  un- 
affected by  the  unusual  animation  Saada  displayed. 
It  was  plain  to  see  how  happy  she  was  at  the  oppor- 
tunity of  reunion  with  her  father.  Six  long  lonely 
years  had  drifted  since  the  sheikh,  then  a  man  of 


90  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

considerable  substance,  had  sent  her  to  Europe  to  be 
educated.  And  when  her  school  days  were  over  and 
Saada  had  intended  to  return  to  her  beloved  sunny 
Tunis,  the  blow  of  financial  ruin  had  fallen  to  keep 
her  in  England. 

By  shrewd  design  rather  than  inadvertently  Mrs. 
Railsford  herself  had  so  arranged  matters  that  their 
stay  in  Tunis  was  short.  Powerless  to  dissuade 
Lance  from  his  purpose  to  marry  Saada,  at  least 
she  could  so  plan  their  journey  from  the  coast  to 
El  Bouira  that  there  was  little  opportunity  to  asso- 
ciate with  the  Arab  family  into  which  her  son  was 
marrying.  Now  all  these  skilfully-laid  plans  had 
been  rendered  void  by  Uncle  Hugh,  in  his  dotage, 
sending  post-haste  for  the  sister  whom  he  detested. 

Altogether  not  a  happy  chain  of  thought,  for  a 
young  man  of  Railsford's  temperament,  consider- 
ably susceptible  to  circumstance  and  environment, 
to  indulge  in.  To  make  matters  worse,  he  showed 
no  desire  to  hide  his  feelings.  To  Sheikh  Medene — 
a  pattern  of  cultured  old-world  courtesy — he  was 
stand-offish  and  guardedly  supercilious.  He  sel- 
dom interjected  a  remark  unless  directly  addressed, 
and  then  only  in  monosyllables. 

At  first  Saada  failed  to  notice  his  change  of  man- 
ner, but  as  the  time  to  leave  Constantine  drew  on  it 
became  more  plain  that  Lance  was  already  regret- 
ting the  step  he  had  taken  in  suggesting  the  sheikh 
should  join  them.  Not  having  fully  counted  the 
cost  in  loss  of  prestige  among  his  own  people,  the 
price  was  making  its  weight  felt. 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  91 

That  afternoon,  through  the  courtesy  of  M.  Momy, 
the  Transatlantique's-  resident  agent,  who  had  taken 
unending  pains  to  make  their  stay  in  Constantine 
enjoyable,  and,  in  fact,  had  gratuitously  placed  at 
their  disposal  a  car  to  visit  all  the  sights  in  the 
city  and  neighbourhood,  they  had  driven  to  the 
Palace  of  the  Bey  el  Had j -Ahmed,  a  wonderful 
example  of  Arab  architecture  enclosing  four  beauti- 
ful gardens  surrounded  by  handsome  pillared  gal- 
leries. The  sheikh  had  much  admired  the  wonder- 
ful show  of  orange  and  citron  trees,  and  the  party 
were  turning  away  when  a  message  came  from  the 
resident  French  general  who  occupied  the  gorgeous 
ujfper  rooms  of  the  Bey's  pavilion  requesting  that 
Saada  and  her  father,  whom  he  had  known  years 
before  in  Tunis,  should  be  presented  to  him. 

To  this  Lance  took  exception,  and  did  not  even 
try  to  hide  his  ill-feeling.  He  had  no  wish  to  be 
received  by  the  general  in  company  with  an  Arab, 
even  though  the  Arab  might  be  a  sheikh  and  person 
of  high  degree ;  he  made  an  excuse  to  sheer  off,  and 
Saada  and  her  father  went  in  alone. 

The  ebullition  of  ill-feeling  was  purely  tempor- 
ary, by  the  time  the  hotel  was  reached  Lance  had 
put  it  almost  out  of  remembrance.  Saada,  how- 
ever, felt  the  slight  deeply,  but  said  nothing  until  a 
late  hour  brought  her  and  her  lover  to  their  custom- 
ary good-night  stroll  on  the  hotel  terrace. 

Beyond  the  gravelled  drive  stretched  rising 
grass  land  where  immense  blocks  of  grey  granite, 
half-buried,   told  the  romantic  story  of  a  once- 


92         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

proud  Roman  occupation — possibly  a  temple  to 
Venus  or  Celeste,  judging  from  the  exquisite  carv- 
ing of  the  stones. 

On  the  broken  capital  of  one  of  these  immense 
columns  Lance  had  seated  himself  and  was  idly 
watching  the  play  of  light  on  the  turbulent  water 
rushing  through  the  ravine  below.  He  felt  instinc- 
tively that  Saada  had  waited  for  this  hour,  when 
they  should  be  alone,  to  speak  of  things  she  could 
not  mention  in  the  presence  of  her  father.  He  had 
a  vague,  semi-repentant  consciousness  of  guilt,  of 
having  fallen  away  from  those  ideals  of  chivalry 
and  unselfishness  which  Saada  always  associated 
with  him.  Secretly  he  felt  mean :  conscious  of  hav- 
ing made  a  bargain  which  in  some  respects  had 
not  quite  fulfilled  expectations,  and  because  the 
results  had  been  somewhat  different  from  anticipa- 
tion, he  had  allowed  her  clearly  to  see  his  dissatis- 
faction. 

Saada  was  frankly  honest.  She  came  directly  to 
the  point.  Kneeling  on  the  warm  earth  beside  him 
and  resting  her  ha^ids  on  his  knees,  she  met  him 
with  steady,  unflinching  gaze. 

"Lance,  I  want  you  to  reconsider  your  decision 
about  marrying  me,"  she  said  very  quietly,  fighting 
back  the  emotion  under  which,  she  laboured.  "I 
know  all  you  have  been  feeling  and  suffering  these 
last  few  days,  and " 

"You  know  what?"  he  asked,  suddenly  fearful 
of  his  own  happiness. 

Her  small  head  tilted  farther  back;  he  watched 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  93 

the  rippling  quiver  of  the  tiny  muscles  about  her 
throat.  In  the  soft  luminance  of  the  stars  her  teeth 
were  dazzlingly  white,  her  eyes  beautiful,  despite 
their  shadowed  sadness. 

"I  know  that  things  have  happened  to  make  you 
wish  you  had  never  engaged  yourself  to  me.  I  know 
that  the  coming  of  my  father  to  Constantine,  the 
closer  association  of  Eastern  with  your  Western 
ideas,  have  made  you  half  regret  the  step  you  have 
taken." 

He  leant  forward,  and  placing  his  hands  beneath 
her  arms,  held  her  supple  body  fast. 

"You  think  I  have  ceased  to  care  for  you, 
dearest?"  he  whispered,  carried  away  by  the  lure 
of  her  beauty.  The  mouth  that  was  willing  to  sub- 
mit to  his  impassioned  kiss  grew  suddenly  firm. 
She  drew  a  little  away  from  him,  and  her  voice 
was  strong  with  resolution. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  ceased  to  care,  Lance, 
but  I  do  want  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  let  me 
go." 

Eailsford  had  not  dreamed  it  would  come  to  this. 
He  had  satisfied  his  own  meanness  of  soul  up  to  the 
safety-point  of  immunity  from  consequence;  now, 
faced  with  the  loss  of  Saada,  he  felt  suddenly 
afraid. 

For  a  moment  he  made  no  answer  to  her  unex- 
pected request :  his  tongue  passed  over  his  dry  lips ; 
he  drew  a  long  deep  breath  of  surprise.  Then, 
regaining  his  self-possession,  he  said, 

"You  really  don't  expect  me  to  take  you  seriously, 


94  A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

dear  .  .  .  unless,  of  course,  you  no  longer  care  for 
me." 

It  was  a  coward's  way,  to  throw  the  blame  on  her, 
and  his  voice  failed  over  the  last  words.  Saada 
merely  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  tender  compas- 
sion. 

"When  you  asked  me — how  much  I  cared  .  .  . 
I  told  you  without  any  reserve,  Lance.  I  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  love  a  man — except  my  own 
father — until  I  met  you  in  London.  Then  .  .  . 
well,  you  know  how  it  happened ;  we  just  seemed  to 
grow  fond  of  each  other,  and  when  you  asked  me 
to  marry  you  .  .  .  I — I — was  very  happy  ...  be- 
cause I  thought — ^you  would  be  happy,  too." 

"Well,  and  have  you  since  lost  faith  in  me?" 

"Perhaps  I  have  lost  faith  in  myself.  I  wanted 
to  feel  that  in  me  you  had  found  all  you  could  need 
in  this  life ;  some  one  to  fill  every  hour  with  happi- 
ness." 

He  knew  that  she  was  taking  the  major  burden 
on  her  own  small  shoulders.  Still  he  remained 
selfishly  obdurate. 

"You  don't  believe  you  can  make  me  happy?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  unless  your  love  is  deeper,  stronger  than 
it  is  now.  Lance" — raising  her  troubled  face  to 
his.  "I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  but  I  am  anxious 
to  save  you  from  a  step  you  might  afterwards 
regret." 

"Why  should  I  regret?"  he  asked,  almost  roughly. 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  95 

"What  sort  of  a  man  should  I  be — to  regret  having 
married  you?" 

"You  are  beginning  to  realize  .  .  .  the  truth  of 
what  I  told  you  that  afternoon — in  the  Cotswolds. 
Blood  will  tell.  There  is  a  difference;  the  East 
and  the  West  are  so  far  divided  that  nothing  but 
perfect  love  can  bridge  them.  I  believed  you  to  be 
in  earnest  about  our  engagement :  perhaps  you  are 
still  .  .  .  but  I  am  more  than  afraid — for  your 
sake." 

In  an  instant  he  had  clasped  her  shoulders,  and 
bending,  kissed  her. 

"Of  course  I  love  you,"  he  said  impatiently,  as 
though  hurt  and  surprised  that  she  had  ever 
doubted  him.  "I  have  always  loved  you  .  .  .  ever 
since  I  first  saw  you  in  London.  I  wanted  you 
then  .  .  .  made  up  my  mind  to  win  you  .  .  .  and 
now — now  you  are  talking  about  breaking  off  the 
engagement." 

"Only,  sweetheart,  because  things  seem  so  dif- 
ferent," she  remonstrated  gently.  "We  are  getting 
very  near  to  our  wedding-day.  Sometimes  I  have 
fancied  a  change  has  come  over  you ;  that  you  have 
felt  you  would  be  standing  in  your  own  light  if  you 
married  an  Arab  girl.  I  know  how  you  have  felt 
about  my  father.  His  being  with  us  sets  the  stamp 
of  race  upon  me."  The  poise  of  her  head  told  him 
more  plainly  even  than  her  words  the  pride  she  took 
in  her  father.  "I  am  not  ashamed.  Can  you  say 
the  same?" 


m  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"You  quite  misjudge  me,"  he  said,  looking  hurt, 
"because  I  do  not  understand  Eastern  people  and 
Eastern  ways  as  you  do.  I  respect  the  sheikh,  and 
honour  him  immensely.  You  mustn't  blame  me, 
darling,  if  I  haven't  as  much  affection  for  him  as 
you  have." 

"The  last  thought  in  my  mind  is  to  blame  you  for 
anything,"  she  replied.  "I  shouldn't  blame  you  if 
you  said  now,  'Our  engagement  is  a  mistake;  I 
want  to  break  it.'  I  should  admire  you — for  be- 
ing strong." 

His  long  fingers  smoothed  the  softness  of  her 
hair. 

"You  are  very  foolish  tonight,  little  sweetheart 
.  .  .  filled  with  strange  fears.  I  have  never  at  any 
time  wanted  to  let  you  go:  least  of  all  now,  with 
our  wedding-day  so  near.  Every  hour  you  grow 
more  precious,  more  necessary  to  my  happiness.  I 
couldn't  ever — ever  let  you  go." 

In  the  shelter  of  his  arms  she  ceased  to  feel 
afraid.  Her  warm  body  moved  yieldingly  to  his; 
she  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder  and  he  felt  the 
softness  of  her  breast.  Then,  with  a  gesture  of 
thankfulness,  she  lifted  her  head,  brushed  the  tears 
from  her  cheek  and  raised  her  lips. 

Railsford  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  her  childish 
mouth.  In  his  nostrils  was  the  subtle  perfume  of 
her  flesh,  her  hair.  He  held  her  fast,  his  breath 
coming  quickly  .  .  .  and  in  turn  kissed  her  on  the 
lips  and  the  brow. 


SHEIKH  MEDENE  97 

"Saada,  I  am  in  heaven  with  you/'  he  murmured 
passionately. 

"Have  I  been  very  cruel,  Lance?"  she  asked,  still 
nestling  close. 

"Not  cruel,"  he  said,  smoothing  the  troubled  lines 
from  her  forehead.  "Only  a  little  unjust.  You 
made  me  feel  as  though  I  had  done  you  an  injury." 

"And  all  the  time — you  weren't  really — dissatis- 
fied with  your  bargain?" 

"Of  course  not" — laughing  boyishly.  "How 
could  I  be?  You  mustn't  worry  your  dear  head 
because  I  haven't  quite  accustomed  myself  to  your 
father's  Eastern  ways." 

She  slid  her  hand  trustingly  into  his. 

"And  you  will  never  regret,  Lance?  I  would' 
rather  you  said  so  now  .  .  .  before  it  is  too  late." 

"Darling" — gently  releasing  her — "I  have  told 
you.    I  shall  never  regret  .  .  .  never," 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD 

A^  they  stood  together  on  the  terrace  the 
following  morning,  Lance  with  her  father 
and  Yakoub,  grouped  about  the  magnifi- 
cent car  which  was  to  take  them  to  the  desert,  far 
to  the  south,  Saada  felt  almost  ashamed  of  her  over- 
night fears. 

Lance  positively  radiated  enthusiasm  as  he  looked 
over  the  motor  with  the  stalwart  driver  whom  the 
Transatlantique  had  supplied. 

"The  machine  is  simply  wonderful,"  he  said,  re- 
joining the  girl  on  the  hotel  steps.  She'll  run 
like  quicksilver  on  a  thousand-mile  sheet  of  glass. 
The  body  can  be  covered  in  if  we  get  rain  in  the 
mountains;  there's  ample  room  for  all  the  luggage. 
It's  another  amazing  example  of  road  transport 
beating  the  railways  every  time." 

"And  in  Africa,  too,"  Saada's  dark  eyes  sparkled. 
"That's  what  fascinates  me.  Lance — to  know  we  can 
go  from  one  corner  of  this  marvellous  countiy  to 
another,  visit  Roman  ruins  and  long-lost  cities, 
without  once  having  to  consult  a  time-table." 

Francois  van  Ecken,  the  Belgian  chauffeur,  six- 
feet  two  in  his  shoes  and  strong  as  a  lion,  touched 
his  peaked  cap  politely. 

98 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  99 

"Mademoiselle  will  see  all  the  wonders  of  Algeria 
for  the  first  time.  Parhleu! — they  are  tres  magni- 
fique  .  .  .  the  montagnes,  the  Kabyle  country,  the 
hot  springs — pouf! — those  Romans  knew  somedink. 
And  my  car — ah !  she  is  tres  hon,  tres  hon.  You 
see." 

She  laughed  as  she  watched  him  purr  over  the 
beautiful  engine,  the  spotless  bodywork,  the  roomy 
interior,  and  felt  that  this  break  iri  a  somewhat 
strained  situation  had  come  just  at  the  right  time. 
Lance  had  apparently  quite  forgotten — if  ever  he 
had  really  nurtured — his  aversion  to  his  Arab 
companions,  for  he  laughed  and  chattered  with 
Yors  Truley  and  the  sheikh  as  though  they  had 
been  lifelong  friends. 

Altogether  Saada  felt  more  happy  than  she  had 
done  for  a  long  time  pa&t.  It  meant  so  much  to 
her,  to  know  that  Lance  was  trying  to  overcome 
the  prejudice  which  most  white  men  have  for  people 
of  another  race.  The  keynote  to  success  in  their 
married  life  lay  in  this  vital  surrender.  Saada's 
love  for  her  parent  formed  so  great  a  part  of  her 
existence,  that  hostility  or  contempt — whether 
veiled  o*r  otherwise — on  Lance's  side  must  have 
made  a  successful  marriage  utterly  impossible. 

Monsieur  Momy,  who  had  so  ungrudgingly  acted 
as  their  cicerone  during  their  pleasant  sojourn  in 
Constantine,  came  to  see  them  off,  and  handed  to 
Lance  personal  introductions  to  the  company^s 
agents  at  Batna  and  Biskra. 

"Whatever  you  wish  done  they  will  attend  to; 


100        A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

anything  you  or  your  friends  desire  to  see  you  have 
only  to  mention  it  to  them." 

Lance  expressed  his  gratitude  and  warmly  shook 
Momy's  hand. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  way  of  doing  business,"  he 
said.  "In  all  my  travels  I  have  never  seen  any- 
thing to  equal  it." 

Monsieur  bowed  at  the  compliment. 

"We  aim  at  a  general  freemasonry  among  all 
who  use  our  service,  Monsieur  Railsford.  We 
like  you  to  feel  that  in  every  one  of  the  com- 
pany's servants  you  have  a  personal  friend.  Bon 
voyage!'^ 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Caret,  the  latter  with  an 
armful  of  poppies  nestled  against  her  bosom,  waved 
them  farewell;  the  big  motor  purred  down  the 
white,  dusty  road  and  bore  them  swiftly  through 
miles  of  pretty  country  towards  the  mountains. 

Saada  sank  back,  her  arm  linked  through  her 
sweetheart's  and  her  small  hand  slid  affectionately 
into  his.  It  seemed  that  at  last  the  realization  of 
her  fondest  dreams  was  coming  true.  All  through 
the  long  lonely  years  in  England,  where  her  herit- 
age of  blood  had  so  cruelly  isolated  her  behind  a 
barrier  of  prejudice  and  scorn,  she  had  turned  her 
thoughts  to  the  hour  when  once  again  fate  should 
lead  her  steps  to  the  sun-kissed,  flower-garlanded 
land  of  her  birth. 

As  the  car  sped  on,  devouring  the  miles  of 
blanched  roads  bordered  by  fields,  where  the  wild 
flowers  grew  in  such  a  riot  of  abundance  that  Nat- 


A  HEKITAGE  OF  BLOOD  101 

ure  seemed  to  have  splashed  all  the  world  with  vivid 
colour,  her  mind  was  full  of  these  things  ...  a 
warp  and  woof  of  grateful  remembrances  and  sad 
regrets.  Bitterness  found  but  little  soil  in  her 
loving  nature;  she  wanted  to  forgive  and  forget 
those  who  had  made  her  unhappy:  Mrs.  Railsford, 
perhaps,  who  had  been  her  bitterest  secret  enemy 
— Saada  tried  hard  to  attribute  it  to  mother-love 
for  her  son.  There  was  only  one  other  sadness, 
and  that  did  not  belong  to  England — the  remem- 
brance of  John  Williams  and  his  unavailing 
endeavour  to  free  himself  from  the  toils.  How 
she  would  have  rejoiced  to  the  full  measure  of  her 
big  generous  heart  had  he  but  sustained  a  little 
longer  the  effort  to  win  freedom.  One  day, 
perhaps,  she  would  hear  of  him  again.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  ever  seen  anything  more  beautiful?" 
Lance  broke  in  on  her  reflections,  pointing  to  the 
edging  of  petite  hleu  which  for  miles  bordered  the 
track  like  a  ribbon  of  purple  velvet  against  a  bar 
of  silver.  On  either  side  were  vast  stretches  of 
tawny  red  marigolds,  flaming  poppies,  tall  moon- 
daisies;  and  here  and  there,  sheltered  from  the  sun 
burning  in  an  unflecked  sky  by  groves  of  olive, 
citron,  and  the  cool  foliage  of  dark  green  cypresses, 
were  tiny  farmsteads,  the  homes  of  French  colonists 
who  had  left  their  beloved  land  to  plant  in  the  soil 
of  Africa  the  roots  of  a  new  Colonial  empire.  In 
the  wide  stretches  that  lay  between  these  brave 
little  outposts  of  civilization  were  the  tents  and 
gourhis  of  wandering  Bedouins  and  olive-skinned 


102        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Kabyles  who  had  immigrated  from  their  mountain 
fastnesses  in  the  West.  But,  more  wonderful  still 
— the  relics  of  the  greater  civilization  that  the  ages 
had  failed  to  sweep  away — the  bridges,  roads,  aque- 
ducts and  mighty  buildings  left  by  the  hands  of 
Imperial  Rome.  Here  they  stood,  shorn  of  but 
little  of  their  former  grandeur,  magnificent  tem- 
ples, mighty  cisterns,  deserted  amphitheatres 
and  triumphal  arches  which  long  ago  had  echoed 
to  the  steps  of  men  famous  in  the  history  of  the 
world. 

Lance  was  boyishly  enthusiastic.  Here,  indeed, 
was  recompense  for  the  long  period  of  seemingly 
profitless  work  done  in  London.  The  lure  of  the 
sunshine,  the  ever-present  fragrance  of  flowers,  the 
caress  of  the  soft  winds  were  a  perfect  setting  to  the 
adventure  upon  which  he  had  embarked. 

It  was  early  evening  when  they  reached  Batna, 
a  clean,  well-built  garrison  town,  whose  chief  claim 
to  consideration,  so  far  as  the  hot  and  dusty  travel- 
lers were  concerned,  lay  in  the  superb  hotel  accom- 
modation awaiting  them.  They  bathed  and 
changed  and  sat  down  to  dinner  prepared  by  a  chef 
who  had  learned  his  skill  at  the  Carlton. 

The  sun  was  still  glowing  grandly  in  the  west 
by  the  time  they  had  finished  coffee  in  the  beauti- 
ful shady  gardens.  Lance  was  chatting  with 
Sheikh  Medene  and  Yakoub  when  Francois  van 
Ecken  approached. 

The  four  drew  to  where  Saada  was  sitting. 

"The  chauffeur  has  just  made  an  excellent  sug- 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  103 

gestion,"  Railsford  announced.  "We  may  as  well 
crowd  every  hour  while  we  can.  What  do  you  say 
to  a  glimpse  of  the  cedar  forest  of  Mount  Tour- 
gourt?  We  get  some  magnificent  views  from  the 
slopes,  besides  a  sight  of  very  interesting  Kabyle 
villages." 

Saada  was  delighted  with  the  prospect  and 
hurried  to  her  room  to  fetch  a  coat,  for  after  the 
short  twilight,  cool  winds  sweep  down  from  the 
hills. 

There  was  a  short  walk  through  the  town  to  the 
place  where  horses  can  be  hired.  Saada  waited 
under  the  palms  with  Yakoub  and  her  father  while 
Lance  went  off  with  Frangois  to  arrange  terms. 
She  stopped  abruptly  in  the  act  of  saying  some- 
thing to  Sheikh  Medene :  a  tall  big  man  was  cross- 
ing the  further  side  of  the  square,  and  as  he  paused 
and  looked  back  across  the  tree-bordered  space, 
Saada  recognized  him  .  .  .  John  Williams,  the 
pariah  man  of  Constantine. 

He  still  looked  shabby,  almost  as  poorly  clad 
as  on  the  fateful  night  when  he  had  rescued  Saada 
from  the  fury  of  the  Arab  mob,  but  there  was  this 
difference :  the  ragged  clothes  had  been  darned  and 
brushed,  the  abundance  of  crisp  dark  hair  was  no 
longer  tousled  and  matted,  the  face  glowed  clean- 
shaven in  the  sunset;  his  bearing  was  that  of  a 
man  who  had  passed  through  deep  and  troubled 
waters  and  was  striving  to  emerge  victorious. 

Saada  watched  him  in  pleased  surprise.  Quite 
unconscious  of  her  scrutiny,  he  had  halted  in  the 


104        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

shade  of  an  arch  of  purple  bougainvillea  that 
stretched  at  the  entrance  of  a  narrow  turning  from 
one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other.  Behind  rose  the 
squat  octagonal  tower  of  a  mosque,  balconied  and 
canopied,  the  uppermost  portion  surmounted  by  a 
pepper-box-like  structure  of  coloured  tiles,  bear- 
ing at  the  summit  a  glittering  crescent. 

Under  the  blanched  walls  a  little  group  of  dark- 
faced,  lustrous-eyed  children  in  home-made  gar- 
ments of  green,  yellow,  and  vermilion  were  eyeing 
longingly  the  stall  of  an  itinerant  seller  of  grapes. 
At  sight  of  the  big  Englishman  who  halted  to  watch 
a  procession  of  richly-dressed  Arabs  following  in 
the  wake  of  silk  banners  and  flaming  streamers — a 
wedding-party  on  their  way  to  the  bridgegroom's 
liouse — they  surged  round  him  holding  out  grubby 
little  palms  and  musically  tinkling  the  gold  rings 
in  their  ears  as  they  shook  their  heads  in  a  vocifer- 
ous request  for  baksheesh. 

The  grey  eyes  turned  on  them  a  kindly  smile; 
he  said  something  that  made  them  all  laugh,  pat- 
ted the  head  of  the  smallest  and  gave  to  each  in 
turn  a  small  coin — the  entire  contents  of  his  purse. 

The  sunlight  dimmed  Saada's  eyes  with  suspi- 
cious moisture;  a  mist  blotted  out  the  procession, 
but  she  caught  the  glad,  eager  cries  of  the  pretty 
children  as  with  a  toss  of  their  coloured  peaked 
caps  they  ran  helter-skelter  in  the  direction  of  the 
seller  of  grapes  and  auhergine.  She  saw  the  smile 
that  lingered  on  the  face  of  Williams ;  the  last  pair 
of  saffron  legs  had  vanished  round  the  corner; 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  105 

then,  as  he  turned  in  under  a  shadowed  archway, 
she  addressed  Yakoub. 

"Yors  Truley,  I  want  you  to  follow  the  big 
rhoiimi  over  there;  find  out  where  he  lives  and 
what  he  is  doing  in  Batna." 

Yakoub's  tub-like  form  wriggled  with  pleasure 
at  being  entrusted  with  a  mission  by  his  young 
mistress.  The  tips  of  his  fat  fingers  met  in  the 
centre  of  his  forehead  and,  making  a  low  salaam, 
he  answered, 

"Dot  is  already  done.  De  act  am  fuss-cousin  to 
de  command,  mos'  high  born.  Dis  crawlin'  w^orm 
will  follow  um  if  necessarible  to  de  gates  ob 
Mecca." 

The  gaudy  banners  floated  in  the  wind;  the 
drums  were  still  thrupping  and  the  drone  of  the 
singing  processionists  resembled  rather  a  funeral 
than  a  wedding-party.  Saada's  emotions  were 
equally  extreme — a  feeling  of  deep  satisfaction 
that  Williams,  in  spite  of  a  temporary  lapse, 
looked  like  making  good,  yet  tinged  with  a  strange 
regret  because  he  had  passed  on  without  seeing  her. 

As  the  bernoused  and  turbaned  mob  vanished 
round  the  corner,  Railsford  appeared  at  the  head 
of  a  string  of  horses  led  by  a  disreputable-looking 
ruflSan,  whose  attire  consisted  in  the  main  of  strips 
of  sacking  stitched  together,  with  holes  for  arms 
and  legs.  On  sighting  Saada  and  the  sheikh  he  ex- 
plained, with  profuse  apologies  that  though  poor 
he  was  scrupulously  honest,  and  apart  from  the 
generous  tips  which  he  was  sure  the  "duchess" 


106        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

would  give  him,  he  was  quite  content  with  his  lot, 
seeing  that  two  pilgrimages  to  Mecca  in  his  youth 
had  assured  him  a  hundred  thousand  years  of 
pleasure  with  the  houris  in  Paradise. 

"Then  every  one's  satisfied!"  laughed  Railsford, 
when  the  whole  party  was  mounted,  and  he  drew 
alongside  Saada.  "But  why  have  you  sent  Yors 
Truley  back  to  the  hotel?" 

"I  haven't,"  she  replied,  blushing.  "While  you 
were  seeing  about  the  horses  a  most  extraordinary 
thing  happened.     I  saw  Mr.  Williams." 

Railsford's  eyes  darkened. 

"What !     Here  in  Batna?'^ 

"Yes,  crossing  the  square — on  the  far  side.  He 
looked  better  than  when  I  saw  him  in  Constantine 
— physically,  I  mean — ^but  awfully  poor.  I  don't 
believe  he  has  enough  to  live  on." 

"So  you  sent  Yakoub  to  inquire?" 

She  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  sneer  that  lurked 
behind  the  suggestion. 

"I  told  Yakoub  to  find  out  all  he  could — in  case 
there  is  anything  we  can  do  for  him." 

Railford's  mouth  took  on  an  expression  of  con- 
temptous  disapproval. 

"It  seems  to  me,  my  dear,  you're  carrying  this 
sense-of-gratitude  business  too  far.  The  fellow 
wants  neither  your  help  nor  your  sympathy.  He 
showed  that  plainly  enough  in  the  letter  he  left  be- 
hind.    Why  not  let  him  go  his  own  way?" 

Saada's  face  lit. 

"I  haven't  forgotten — I  can  never  forget.  Lance 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  107 

• — that  every  hour  of  life  has  been  given  me  by  that 
man.  This  wonderful  night  .  .  .  the  sunset,  the 
scent  of  the  flowers,  the  pleasure  of  having  you 
and  father  with  me  ...  I  owe  everything  to  John 
Williams.  It  wouldn't  be  easy  or  kind  to  try  to 
forget." 

The  tall  Englishman  leant  sideways  in  the  sad- 
dle and  eyed  her  searchingly. 

"So  all  your  days  you  are  going  to  remember  that 
everything  good  in  heaven  and  earth  comes  from 
the  hands  of  John  Williams?" 

She  smiled. 

"I  shall  never  forget  what  he  did,  any  more  than 
I  could  forget  my  father's  love,  or  your  goodness 
to  me.     Lance,  dear,  you  surely  aren't  jealous?" 

"No,  not  jealous,"  he  disclaimed  irritably,  flick- 
ing the  ears  of  the  mare  with  the  fly-switch.  "All 
the  same,  I  do  think,  considering  the  message  he 
left  behind,  you  ought  not  to  bother  your  head 
any  more  about  him.  Anyway,  the  subject  is  not 
over-pleasant,  so  we  won't  discuss  it." 

Saada  said  nothing,  and  the  matter  was  not  re- 
ferred to  again  during  the  long  and  pleasant  drive 
through  the  fragrant  shadowed  aisles  of  the  cedar 
forest.  But  later,  as  Saada  sat  alone  on  the  bal- 
cony of  her  room  watching  the  mysterious  flitting 
to  and  fro  of  the  night  life  of  the  town,  Yakoub 
knocked  gently  on  her  door  and  came  in  to  re- 
port on  his  mission. 

"You  gif  Yors  Truley  much  difflcultsome  job," 
he  laughed.     "Dis  wretched  dog's  body  am  eight 


108        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

pound  less  in  grease  than  whenum  started.  I  see 
that  man  .  .  .  tall  big  fellah  he  is  .  .  .  and  he 
work  for  frowsy  Arab  camel-driver  out  there'* 
— and  he  pointed  far  beyond  the  blanched  walls  of 
Batna  to  the  fields  of  stubble  dotted  here  and  there 
with  the  ugly  chumas  -of  Bedouin-  and  Kabyle 
wanderers.  "Sixteen-  hour  day  dat  white  man 
work — Lord,  di^  pore  chile  ob  sin  sooner  be  French 
prison  warder  up  at  Lambessa.  Clean  camel,  feed 
camel,  drive  camel  from  free  hour  before  the  first 
prayer  up  to  now.  Bah !  A  dog's  life  eben  for  a 
Christian  .  .  .  and  him  only  just  get  eighteen 
franc  ebery  seven  day." 

Saada  listened,  secretly  thrilling  with  satisfac- 
tion. True,  the  life  was  fearfully  hard,  but  what  a 
splendid  effort  in  face  of  the  wasted,  ruinous  years! 

"Where  does  he  live?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

Yakoub  pointed  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  dim 
and  mysterious  under  the  still  night  sky. 

"The  room,  li'l  but  very  clean.  Some  straw  and 
two  sack.  Eat  cous-cxms  twice  each  day  and  a  li'l 
drink  ob  sour  wine.  Caf6,  absinthe,  cig'rette — 
neber.  Arab  woman  she  tell  me  him  good  un- 
crooked  man.  Allah  be  praised  for  one  good 
rlioumi  in  the  land  of  no  profit." 

Not  Allah,  but  God  be  praised  was  the  formless 
prayer  that  rose  from  Saada's  heart.  Many  times 
since  that  eventful  night  had  she  given  long  anx- 
ious hours  thinking  of  Williams,  hopeful  that  all 
would  yet  be  well  with  him.  She  rejoiced  in  the 
grim  struggle  which  he  was  waging,  yet  fretted 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  109 

that  bonds  of  convention  kept  her  from  going 
more  practically  to  his  aid. 

That  night  she  slept  more  happily  than  for  a 
long  time  past.  At  last  it  seemed  that  in  every 
direction  her  sorrows  were  coming  to  an  end. 
Lance's  treatment  of  her  father  had  shown  of  late 
a  marked  improvement,  much  to  Sheikh  Medene's 
secret  satisfaction. 

She  would  have  liked  to  speak  to  Williams  be- 
fore leaving  Batna,  but  the  car  was  ordered  at 
an  early  hour  when  she  knew  he  would  be 
tending  or  driving  his  unfriendly  charges  across 
the  once-fertile  lands  of  Mauretania.  They  left 
Batna  in  the  first  flush  of  sunrise,  taking  the  road 
once  tramped  by  the  proud  legions  of  Rome  mov- 
ing inland  to  their  military  headquarters  at  Lam- 
bessa.  It  was  an  interesting  journey  through  this 
once  fertile  granary  that  had  fed  the  Western 
world.  Now  all  that  was  left  were  the  occasional 
cultivated*  tracts  wrested  from  desolation  by 
French  colonists,  the  paved  ways  and  ruined  tem- 
ples, the  tall  columns  and  the  grand  triumphal 
arches  on  the  hills.  At  length  they  halted  in  the 
spacious  stone-flagged  streets  of  Timgad,  the 
"show"  city  of  Northern  Africa. 

They  would  have  loved  to  spend  a  week  among 
the  fine  buildings  and  dignified  colonnades,  the 
wonderful  statues  and  exquisite  carvings,  but  El 
Bouira  was  calling. 

The  land  changed.  Gone  were  the  grim  moun- 
taiSis,  the  rushing  to-rrents-,  the  fertile  plains  and 


110        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

fragrant  valleys  .  .  .  the  'world  was  given  over 
to  a  blazing  desert  of  aand,  dotted  at  far  intervals 
with  cool  oases  of  thousands  of  palms. 

They  made  El  Bouira  three  days  behind  time, 
being  delayed  by  a'  sand-storm  which  for  many 
hours  buried  the  wide  Roman  trackway  under 
several  feet  of  fine  dust.  Fortunately,  at  the  end 
of  seventy-two  hours,  the  burning  south  wind 
veered  round  to  the  east  and  brought  a  breath  of 
coolness  from  the  salt  lakes ;  the  dust  lifted,  and  in 
the  cool  of  a  delicious  evening  they  sighted,  clear 
against  the  western  horizon,  the  green  fields  and 
the  tree-sheltered  walls  of  El  Bouira. 

Never  had  Saada  seen  anything  so  beautiful  as 
this  first  glimpse  of  the  place  which  was  to  be  her 
future  home.  A  gem  of.  softest  emerald  set  in  the 
crown  of  blazing  gold  .  .  .  groves  of  citron,  lemon, 
and  orange,  springing  up  at  the  fringe  of  the  desert 
and  providing  cool  shade  to  the  very  gates  of  El 
Bouira. 

An-  immensely  high  wall,  planted  at  intervals 
with  embattled  towers  -more  picturesque  than  ser- 
viceable in  their  ruinous  decay,  surrounded 
the  town,  and  about  it  frothed  and  seethed  white 
clematis,  purple-bougainvillea,  sweet-smelling  jas- 
mine and  clu-S'ter-roses.  At  the  end  of  a  broad, 
well-lighted  street  bordered  with  plane  trees  and 
palms  stood  a  small  but  dignified  building,  the 
English  church,  raised  some  twenty  years  before 
by  the  British  colony  which  had  been  working  on  a 
special  concession  from  the  French  Government. 


A  HERITAGE  OF  BLOOD  111 

A  club  house,  a  new  hotel  run  on  first-class  lines  by 
the  Transatlantique  Company,  a  small  but  flour- 
ishing business  section  mostly  occupied  by  French 
and  Maltese,  but  with  a  fair  sprinkling  of  English, 
completed  the  European  portion;  on  three  sides 
stretched  the  native  quarter. 

Saada's  hopes  ran  high  as  she  looked  out  upon 
the  cool,  clean  streets.  In  the  open  cafes  a  few 
uniformed  French  and  native  soldiery  drowsed  or 
talked  with  Gallic  animation ;  on  the  sanded  floors 
sloe-eyed  native  youths  played  dominoes  and 
paused  to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  a  marabout  dis- 
coursing on  the  teachings  of  the  Koran. 

Below  the  high  walls  which  formed  the  backs  of 
better-class  houses  ran  a  slowly-trickling  stream 
clear  as  crystal  and  deliciously  cool,  brought  from 
the  adjacent  oasis  of  Yene  Hadar. 

In  the  square  beneath  the  tiled  walls  and  twisted 
pillars  of  the  Great  Mosque  groups  of  cameleers 
were  gathered,  bartering  with  the  sellers  of  water, 
dates,  and  other  commodities  essential  to  the  long 
southward  journey  across  the  Sahara.  Life,  fonn, 
warmth,  and  colour  everywhere:  a  land  of  sun- 
shine, smiles,  and  love. 

Saada  felt  that  she  had  come  home  at  last.  The 
face  of  the  aged  sheikh  reflected  the  same  spirit. 
They  laughed  together  and  clapped  their  hands  in 
an  ecstasy  of  pleasure  over  a  score  of  trivial  things 
which  the  phlegmatic  Northener  would  pass  un- 
noticed. The  sight  of  the  dancing  girls  of  the 
Ouled  Nail,  in  their  black  and  red  dresses  richly 


112        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

ornamented  with  gold  plaques,  the  very  tinkling 
of  the  heavy  gold  rings  in  their  ears  and  about 
their  foreheads,  drew  expressions  of  childish  pleas- 
ure from  Saada. 

She  turned  to  Lance,  her  face  flushed. 

"Everything  comes  back — the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood," she  said,  her  eyes  sparkling;  then  nodded 
towards  her  father.  "Don't  you  remember — my 
twelfth  birthday — before  we  came  up  to  Tunis  .  .  . 
the  Ouled  Nail  came,  and  danced  in  the  moonlight 
as  we  sat  on  the  roof  till  the  stars  went  out  of  the 
sky?  Then  I  remember,  there  was  a  snake- 
charmer  who  came  one  day  from  Beni  Azoun,  a 
devil-man  from  the  Soudan  who  did  the  most 
wonderful  tricks,  and,  to  end  up,  we  went  off  on 
camels  to  the  holy  city  of  Halfouine  across  the 
plains,  and  saw  the  priests  walking  on  white-hot 
stone.  It  was  very  dreadful  .  .  .  and  yet  I  re- 
member the  next  day  I  wanted  to  go  and  see  it  all 
over  again." 

Railsford,  looking  gravely  at  her,  became  sud- 
denly preoccupied.  Strange  thoughts  were  in  his 
mind  ...  an  aspect  that  never  before  had  occurred 
to  him.  Was  it  possible,  after  their  marriage, 
Saada  would  lose  her  veneer  of  Western  civiliza- 
tion and  become  again  one  of  her  own  people — 
Arab  in  sentiment,  religion,  and  feeling,  as  well  as 
in  flesh  and  blood? 


CHAPTER  IX 

EL    BOUIEA 

IT  was  a  pity  such  a  thought  should  have  come 
at  the  moment  of  reaching  El  Bouira.  Rails- 
ford  had  honestly  tried,  through  the  past  four 
weeks  to  put  away  every  doubt  that  arose  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  his  union  with  a  coloured  girl.  Back  in 
England  he  seldom  thought  of  Saada  as  such; 
at  times  forgot  it  altogether,  except  when  in  the 
society  of  others  a  covert  glance  might  be  directed 
at  her  finger-nails,  or  brows  raised  over  the  East- 
ern character  of  her  name.  Had  she  herself  made 
an  effort  to  cloak  her  nationality  few  would  ever 
have  associated  her  with  the  Arab  race;  yet  here, 
among  her  own  people,  the  consciousness  was  sud- 
denly borne  in  on  him  that  neither  her  Western 
upbringing  nor  the  tie  of  her  marriage  to  a  white 
man  would  really  change  her  nature. 

As  they  left  the  busier  quarter  a  tremendous  hush 
seemed  to  have  fallen  on  sky  and  desert,  bathed  in 
an  illimitable  flood  of  amber  light;  in  the  west  the 
sun  throbbed  and  glowed  like  an  immense  plaque  of 
gold,  and  the  air  was  drowsy  with  the  hum  of  in- 
sect life. 

Saada  leaned  back,  chatting  gaily  with  her 
father ;  the  eyes  of  both  were  glowing. 

113 


114        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Is  it  not  good,  O  my  daughter,  to  be  back  in  the 
land  which  Allah  in  his  great  wisdom  has  so  merci- 
fully blessed?"  he  asked,  passing  one  thin  hand  over 
the  other  and  beaming  with  delight  on  the  scene 
unfolded  as  the  car  took  the  straight  rise  leading 
to  the  hotel.  "Often  in  Tunis  I  have  told  myself 
that  it  is  neither  the  blue  sea  nor  the  great  cities 
which  makes  Africa  what  she  is,  but  the  desert 
.  .  .  the  desert — la!" 

He  stared  across  a  vista  of  sand  edged  in  the 
distance  with  the  nodding  plumes  of  palms  and  the 
soft  green  of  the  oasis  rim.  Against  the  turquoise 
of  the  skyline  slow-moving  camels  lumbered  with 
measured  tread,  their  white-draped  riders,  bearing 
long-barrelled  guns  across  their  shoulders,  clear- 
cut  as  cameos  in  the  crystal  atmosphere.  Sun 
andr  sand,  palms  and  shady  groves,  the  scent  of  j^ 
flowers,  and  a  pulsing  heat  that  turned  each  ^ay 
into  a  love-song  and  the  nights  into  dreams  of 
desire. 

Saada  turned  to  her  lover. 

"We  ought  to  be  happy  here.  Lance,"  she  whis- 
pered, slipping  her  hand  into  his.  "In  all  the  world 
have  you  ever  seen  any  spot  so  wondrously  beauti- 
ful?" 

He  was  forced  to  confess  he  had  not,  and  would 
have  caught  the  same  spirit  of  enthusiasm  but  for 
the  dark,  troublous  thoughts  lurking  in  the  back 
of  his  mind.  They  were  not  allayed  when,  pass- 
ing up  the  stone-walled  drive  banked  by  masses  of 
wild   flowers — marigolds,   veteres,   purple,   white, 


EL  BOUIRA  115 

and  blue,  sainfoin  gleaming  redly,  succamelle  and 
purple  borage  in  patches,  and  stately  asphodels — 
he  saw  the  terrace  of  the  hotel  crowded  with  Eng- 
lish people  who  had  come  there,  some  few  to  drowse 
and  idle  the  evening  away,  the  majority  to  gain 
first  impressions  of  the  new  arrivals. 

In  little  groups  they  walked  the  rose'trellised 
verandah  or  sipi)ed  iced  drinks  at  marble-topped 
tables  in  the  shade  of  the  orange  trees.  There  was 
a  general  raising  of  heads  and  a  sudden  hush  of 
meaningless  chatter,  as  the  car  and  the  attendant 
luggage-carrier  stopped  at  the  entrance. 

Monsieur  Bertrand,  the  manager,  followed  by  his 
son,  came  fussing  out  to  offer  a  welcome.  He  as- 
sisted Saada  and  her  father  to  alight,  while  the 
younger  man  issued  orders  for  the  disposal  of  the 
baggage.  Lance  was  conscious  of  critical  glances 
and  guarded  whisperings,  of  shrugged  shoulders 
and  smothered  remarks,  as  with  the  girl  on  one  side 
and  the  old  Arab  on  the  other,  he  followed  Ber- 
trand up  the  terrace  steps. 

He  sensed  rather  than  heard  "new  British  Offi- 
cial" bandied  from  lip  to  lip,  and  knew  one  was 
telling  the  other  that  the  native  girl  at  his  side 
was  to  be  the  future  hostess  at  the  Vice-Consulate. 

Through  a  dead  silence  they  passed  the  several 
groups  and  entered  the  cool  of  the  vestibule.  Said 
Bertrand,  speaking  in  French, 

"I  trust  Mademoiselle  and  Messieurs  have  made 
good  travelling.  It  was  expected  you  would  arrive 
on  Tuesday,  and  there  have  been  many  inquiries  as 


116        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

to  the  cause  of  the  delay.  I  hope  nothing  serious 
happened." 

Lance  felt  that  in  replying  to  Bertrand  he  was 
satisfying  the  curiosity  of  the  entire  English-speak- 
ing population  of  El  Bouira. 

"There  was  difficulty  over  securing  camels. 
Your  company  came  to  the  rescue  with  their  car. 
We  have  had  a  wonderful  journejy  .  .  .  and  we  are 
all  ravenous  for  dinner." 

"For  Mademoiselle  and  Messieurs  a  special  menu 
has  been  prepared.  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  one 
half-hour." 

"You  have  a  good  many  people  here,"  Saada  re- 
marked as  she  handed  her  motoring  cloak  to 
Takoub. 

Bertrand  was  rubbing  his  palms  together. 

"Ah,  it  is  the  special  occasion,  m'amselle.  News 
travels  fast,  even  across  the  desert.  There  has 
been  much  excitement  about  the  approaching  wed- 
ding— ^is  it  not?  Certainly,  on  that  day,  the  entire 
town  will  go  on  holiday." 

Lance  whitened  a  little  under  his  tan. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  it  won't!  I  had  no  idea 
any  one  here  knew  about  my  engagement,  let 
alone  .  .  ." 

Bertrand  smiled  blandly. 

"Did  not  Monsieur  write  to  the  agent,  Monsieur 
Dob6e,  as  to  a  house?" 

At  this  Railsford  laughed. 

"Of  course.     I  remember  now.    However,"  with 


EL  BOUIRA  IIT 

a  careless  wave  of  his  hand,  "it  is  of  no  consequence. 
I  don't  suppose  they'll  set  the  streets  alight." 

All  the  same,  the  feeling  grew  on  him,  as  they 
sat  at  table  later  on,  that  every  one  who  was  any  one 
in  El  Bouira  had  migrated  to  the  Transatlantique 
Hotel,  and  had  gone  to  the  unnecessary  expense  of 
ordering  dinner,  simply  to  take  stock  of  him  and 
his  future  bride.  And  the  fact  that  she  was  a 
native,  in  the  care  of  her  Arab  father,  would  set 
the  tongues  of  El  Bouira  wagging  faster  than  they 
had  ever  wagged  before. 

All  though  the  meal  this  thought  bothered  him. 
They  expected  the  sheikh  in  his  flaming  orange  robe 
and  green  turban  to  eat  cous-cous  with  his  fingers; 
insitead  he  dined  like  any  ordinary  European,  and 
the  daughter  might  have  graced  a  Paris  salon. 
There  would  be  many  intriguings  and  not  a  little 
disappointment  over  this.  Having  discovered  the 
prospective  wife  of  the  freshly-appointed  Vice- 
Consul  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  pure-blooded  Arab, 
it  was  natural  to  suppose  they  would  sit  on  cushions 
and  take  their  food  out  of  a  common  dish. 

The  many  surprised  glances  suggested  disap- 
pointment. 

If  Saada  was  conscious  of  the  manner  in  which 
she  and  her  father  were  being  regarded  she  gave 
no  sign ;  indeed,  she  was  too  delighted  with  her  real 
home-coming  to  bother  over  what  people  thought  or 
said.  She  had  known  all  along — in  fact,  had  often 
pleaded  against  herself — that  such  would  be  the 


lis       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

natural  consequence  of  their  union ;  and  again  and 
again  Lance  had  assured  her  his  love  was  strong 
and  big  enough  to  stand  proof  against  such  triviali- 
ties. 

They  had  almost  reached  the  end  of  the  sump- 
tuous repast,  such  as  Lance  never  realized  a  desert 
town  could  produce,  when  the  large  room  cleared 
rapidly.  In  little  knots  the  diners  drifted  out, 
passing  their  table  as  though  unconscious  of  their 
presence. 

Railsford  Smothered  a  sigh.  He  knew  by  that 
sign  that  the  seal  of  disapproval  had  been  set  upon 
his  choice.  He  glanced  across  at  Saada,  wondering 
if  she  had  noticed  it.  Her  smiling  face,  as  she  ex- 
changed a  joke  with  her  father,  set  his  fears  at 
rest 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  music-room  or  into  the 
gardens?"  he  questioned. 

She  rose  from  the  table. 

"I  think  father  would  like  to  go  to  his  room.  He 
is  very  tired  with  the  long  journey,  dear.  The 
music-room  will  be  full.  I'd  rather  sit  with  you 
under  the  trees  while  you  enjoy  your  cigar." 

Lance  nodded  and  they  passed  out.  The  music- 
room  was  empty:  so  were  the  vestibule  and  the 
terrace.  The  throng  had  vanished  as  at  the  touch 
of  a  magician's  wand. 

"We  appear  to  have  the  place  to  ourselves.  That 
is  ever  so  much  nicer,"  Saada  said  with  a  gaiety 
suddenly  assumed.     "It's  much  better  to  be  alone." 

"I  suppose  the  majority  have  appointments  in 


EL  BOUIRA  119 

town,"  he  said,  grasping  at  the  first  clumsy  excuse. 
"You  know  what  happens  in  these  small  places 
right  off  the  map.  Everybody  visits  everybody 
else  and  plays  bridge  or  billiards  almost  till  day- 
light. I  quite  agree;  it  is  good  to  have  the  place 
to  ourselves." 

And  yet  the  thought  haunted  him  long  after  the 
sheikh  had  retired  under  Yakoub's  care  to  the 
quiet  of  his  room.  Tonight  had  witnessed  the 
first  casting  of  the  shadow — a  presage  of  the  time 
to  come.  He  sat  under  the  purple-blue  of  the  sky, 
dimly  powdered  with  stars,  answering  Saada  only 
in  detached  monosyllables  .  .  .  wondering  what 
the  future  with  this  lovely  innocent  desert  child 
would  be.  Did  it  mean  social  extinction,  a  sepa- 
ration from  his  fellows?  To  a  man  of  Railsford's 
temperament  such  a  verdict  spelt  disaster. 

Always  pride  of  race  had  held  him.  To  be  re- 
garded as  an  object  of  pity  or  derision  .  .  .  was  it 
more  than  he  could  stand? 

He  looked  covertly  at  the  profile  of  the  perfectly- 
moulded  face,  clear-cut  like  purest  alabaster  in  the 
white  light  of  the  late-rising  moon.  The  creature 
of  convention  in  him  passed  out  and  gave  place  to 
the  man.  He  told  himself  that  at  last  he  knew 
what  held  him  enthralled  .  .  .  the  lure  of  her 
physical  beauty.  Watching  her  now,  he  was  deeply, 
dreadfully  conscious  of  it  .  .  .  that  every  glance 
from  those  dazzling  eyes,  every  movement  of  the 
warm,  seductive  lips,  made  an  appeal  which  he  was 
powerless  to  withstand. 


120        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

The  very  nearness  of  her  presence  made  his  senses 
reel.  A  wave  of  passion  swept  over  him ;  she  turned 
swiftly  and  saw  the  blaze  in  his  eyes. 

"Why,  Lance,  what  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 
"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 

The  straightness  of  that  gaze  drew  him  out  of  a 
riot  of  confusion  which  he  tried  to  hide  under  a 
careless  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  sweetheart.  I  was  only  think- 
ing— ^just  then — how  much  I  loved  you  .  .  .  and 
how  glad  I  shall  be  when  we  are  married.  We 
seem  to  have  been  apart — so  long." 

"So  long,  dear !"  She  laughed  merrily  and  toyed 
with  the  ring  on  her  finger.  "Why,  we  have  never 
before  been  so  much  together.  Don't  you  remember 
.  .  .  those  dreadful  days  in  London — ^perhaps  I 
oughtn't  to  say  that,  because  really  I  was  ever  so 
happy  .  .  .  but  there  were  times  when  we  saw 
each  other,  alone,  only  perhaps  for  an  hour  on 
Saturday  afternoons  .  .  .  unless  it  was  one  of 
those  great  occasions  when  your  mother  asked  me 
to  spend  the  week-end  at  Redlands." 

"You — you  don't  understand,"  he  said  tenderly. 
"It  has  been  splendid  to  be  with  you  here  in  Africa. 
But  I  feel  that  something  is  keeping  us  apart ;  that 
...  I  shall  never  be  really  happy  till  we  are  man 
and  wife." 

Her  mouth  framed  an  expectant  smile. 

"That  won't  be  very  long,  will  it?  Already  part 
of  the  time  has  gone,  through  this  delay.  As  soon 
as  the  house  is  free " 


EL  BOUIRA  121 

"I  shall  have  to  see  the  parson  of  the  little 
English  church  here.  We  must  give  at  least  three 
Sundays'  notice  for  the  banns.  It  will  seem  such 
a  long  time,  darling";  I  wish  all  the  wretched  for- 
malities were  through,  so  that  you  were  mine — 
now." 

"I'm  certainly  not  any  one  else's,"  she  retorted. 
"And  there's  very  little  prospect  of  my  running 
away." 

"Running  away !"  His  strong  arm  suddenly  held 
her,  and  he  drew  her  dark  head  to  his  shoulder. 
"I  couldn't  let  you.  You've  grown  so  inexpressibly 
dear." 

"I  wonder — will  you  always  say  that?"  she 
questioned. 

"Of  course.  I  haven't  changed  in  the  three 
years  I've  known  you,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  now. 
Besides,  when  we're  married  you'll  be  a  thousand 
times  dearer  to  me." 

"I  was  wondering.  Lance,"  gently  freeing  herself 
and  brushing  back  the  loose  hair  from  her  forehead, 
"whether  we  ought  not  to  postpone  our  wed- 
ding  " 

"Good  Lord!     What  for?" 

"  To  give  your  mother  a  chance  of  rejoining  us. 
She'll  think  it  rather  strange,  our  being  married 
without  her." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  can't  be  helped.  Uncle  Hugh  may  be  an  un- 
conscionable time  in  dying.  And  certainly  she'll 
stay  with  him  to  the  end.     No,  Saada,  we  can't  do 


122        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

that.  The  plans  I've  made  must  stand.  You  don't 
want  to  wait  ...  do  you?" 

Her  thoughts  were  wandering.  They  had 
strayed,  why  she  did  not  know,  to  a  street  in  the 
squalid  quarter  of  a  reeking  city.  She  stood  in  a 
garret  room  facing  a  gaunt-framed  man  whose  eyes 
looked  at  her  full  of  pity,  entreaty,  and  yearning. 
She  heard  his  voice  above  the  voice  of  Bailsford  at 
her  side :  her  hand  burned  at  the  remembrance  of 
his  touch.  And  then,  in  a  moment,  the  picture 
faded;  she  was  back  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel  at 
El  Bouira,  alone  under  the  white  moon  and  dim 
stars  of  Africa,  and  at  her  side  the  other  man  who 
within  three  weeks  would  be  her  husband.  A  little 
shiver  convulsed  her;  ^he  drew  the  silken  folds  of 
the  wrap  more  closely  about  her  shoulders  and 
rose. 

"The  wind  has  freshened,"  she  said  quietly.  "I 
am  getting  cold.     Shall  we  go  in?" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD 

SAADA  was  charmed  with  the  hoi,use  which 
was  to  be  her  future  home.  Built  only  a 
few  years  before  by  a  French  architect 
for  a  retired  Tunisian  merchant,  it  had  been 
modelled,  in  minature,  on  the  Kouba  of  the 
Belvedere,  and  combined  all  the  picturesque  charm 
of  an  Eastern  edifice  with  the  latest  European 
comforts.  Outwardly  square,  of  cream-coloured 
stone,  three  sides  were  open,  save  at  the  corners, 
forming  a  large  colonnaded  entrance  portico  sup- 
ported by  Corinthian-capped  marble  columns. 
Above  these  on  each  face  were  three  arches  fitted 
with  the  most  delicate  recessed  mesribeyeh  work. 
The  flat  parapeted  roof  was  domed  and  cupolaed 
in  the  centre  and  had  at  each  corner  a  faience- 
breasted  turret  surmounted  by  a  gilded  crescent 
and  star, 

Bongainvillea  gave  colour  to  the  blanched  walls, 
so  that  at  a  short  distance  the  house  looked  like  a 
structure  of  old  ivory  painted  over  with  purple 
stars.  Walks  of  golden-hued  sand  stretched, 
between  well-trimmed  lawns  and  high  banks  gay 
with  bloom.  The  flowers  were  Saada's  special 
delight — masses  of  white  jasmine,  the  heavy  scent 
of  which  was  ever  in  the  shady  rooms,  beds  of  purple 

123 


124        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

petunias,  pink  and  white  geraniums,  flaming  poin- 
settias  and  trellises  of  cluster-roses.  The  back- 
ground of  dark  green  jamelon  trees,  of  citron  and 
orange  foliage  starred  with  golden  fruit,  toned  the 
vividness  of  colour  and  gave  a  suggestion  of  quiet 
restfulness. 

Almost  at  the  last  moment  there  was  difficulty 
in  securing  possession  and  some  months  elapsed 
before  the  date  of  the  marriage  could  be  finally 
settled.  This  gave  time,  however,  for  additional 
furnishings  to  be  sent  down  from  Algiers  and  Tunis. 
The  walls  of  the  large  airy  rooms,  lit  by  spacious 
windows,  shielded  with  green  jalousie  blinds,  were 
plainly  distempered,  colour  being  provided  by  hang- 
ing door  embroideries  and  soft-toned  rugs,  many 
of  which  had  been  brought  from  the  sheikh's  seven- 
teenth-century house  and  formed  his  wedding-gift 
to  his  daughter. 

Saada  found  her  time  fully  occupied,  while  Lance 
was  absent  up  country  with  a  number  of  French 
government  officials,  engaged  in  settling  a  tribal 
dispute  that  threatened  international  complica- 
tions. He  returned  to  find  himself  immersed  be- 
neath a  load  of  work  which  gave  little  opportunity 
to  see  much  of  Saada  and  less  still  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  round  of  official  calls  and  visits  to 
be  paid  and  other  obligations,  incidental  to  his 
important  position,  to  be  fulfilled.  The  week 
before  his  marriage  found  him  depressed  by  a  pro- 
found   disquiet.     In    all    quarters    there    was    a 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       125 

scarcely-concealed  hostility  to  the  step  he  was 
premeditating. 

More  than  ever  now  he  wished  Sheikh  Medene 
had  not  come  with  them.  But  for  that  it  was 
scarcely  likely  any  one  would  have  guessed  Saada's 
parentage.  Whatever  her  own  innate  feelings,  she 
neither  behaved  nor  looked  like  an  Arab ;  her  long 
sojourn  in  Western  Europe,  coupled  with  her 
English  education,  might  well  have  cloaked  the 
fact  which  Railsford  was  so  anxious  to  conceal. 

From  the  first  hour  of  their  arrival,  however,  it 
had  been  impossible  to  keep  the  matter  secret.  In 
the  European  circles  of  El  Bouira  brows  were 
raised  and  shoulders  shrugged,  while  not  a  few 
paid  her  the  half-way  compliment  of  suggesting 
she  might  be  the  child  of  an  English  mother  by  an 
Arab  father,  and  in  the  next  breath  detracted 
from  the  concession  by  describing  her  as  "nigger.'^ 

Not  unnaturally.  Lance  was  worried.  It  had 
been  easy  enough  to  assume  the  "mind-your-own- 
business"  attitude  at  the  contempt  or  disapproval 
shown  by  the  hundred  and  one  chance  acquaint- 
ances which  one  always  makes  in  foreign  lands. 
But  the  contempt  of  people  among  whom  he  had 
to  live,  occupying,  moreover,  as  he  did,  a  position 
of  considerable  public  importance,  was  quite  a 
different  matter. 

At  the  eleventh  hour  he  realized  that  there  might 
be  a  good  deal  in  the  objections  which  Saada  her- 
self had  raised.     His  mother  had  foreseen  them  and 


126        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

had  not  been  slow  to  issue  a  warning.  The  remem- 
brance of  it  annoyed  him  exceedingly,  knowing 
that  hi«  was  not  the  temper  to  bear  lightly  with 
"I  told  you  so." 

He  was  in  this  mood  of  thoughtful  and  occasion- 
ally bitter  reflection  one  evening  following  his 
return  to  El  Bouira.  At  the  oflflce  in  the  Rue  Tim- 
gad,  where  he  generally  put  in  an  hour  or  two  after 
lunch,  things  had  not  gone  well.  A  letter  had  come 
through  from  the  British  Consul's  department  in 
Algiers  questioning,  at  the  instigation  of  the  For- 
eign Office,  a  decision  he  had  given  in  a  concession's 
dispute.  This  was  only  a  pin-prick  to  a  greater 
sore.  A  dinner  which  was  to  have  been  given  in 
his  honour,  and  to  which,  before  their  arrival, 
Saada  was  invited,  had  been  cancelled  on  the  most 
flimsy  excuse.  He  knew  that  behind  it  lay  preju- 
dice against  his  forthcoming  marriage. 

Saada  had  gone  to  the  villa  with  her  father  and 
Yakoub  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the  room 
set  aside  to  be  Railsford's  study.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  exerting  himself  to  face  the  quarter  of  an 
hour's  hot  walk  beyond  the  town  when  Salem,  the 
hotel's  diminutive  page,  appeared  in  a  state  of  con- 
siderable excitement. 

"Mos'  import  gintlemans  .  .  .  gra'  big  miling- 
tary  toff  to  see  the  Mistah  Railsford.  Name  of 
Captsing  General   Bill   Bailey  wiz   no   tin   hat." 

"Bailfey?  I  don't  know  a  Captain  Bailey, "^  said 
Lance,  puckering  his  brows.     "You  must  be  mis- 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       127 

taken,  Salem.  He  hasn't  called  to  see  me.  You 
had  better ^" 

Before  he  could  complete  the  instructions  there 
was  a  heavy  step  on  the  sanded  verandah,  and  a 
bronzed,  middle-aged  man  in  civilian  dress  greeted 
Kaisford  with  a  cheery  wave  of  his  hand. 

Lance  rose  and  stared  curiously.  The  newcomer 
held  out  a  big  palm. 

"You  remember  me,  don't  you,  Railsford?  I'm 
Bailey,  of  Cuspar  Court,  your  father's  old  friend," 

Lance  emitted  a  surprised  laugh. 

"Why,  of  course!  General  Murrans  Bailey.  I 
couldn't  place  you  for  a  moment.  Sit  down.  Gen- 
eral. And  Salem,  ask  Leon  to  bring  two  double 
whiskies  and  soda,  please.  Well,  this  is  a  stag- 
gerer !     I'm  ever  so  pleased  to  see  you." 

Bailey  took  a  cigarette  and  dropped  into  the  near- 
est basket  chair. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you.  Lance,  was  at  a  sup- 
per in  the  hall  of  Trinity.  I  came  up  to  see  my 
nephew,  Grandison;  I  believe  he  used  to  keep  on 
the  floor  above  you  in  Nevile's.  Well,  how  are 
all  your  people?  Yes,  I  know  your  father  is  dead. 
Poor  chap,  I  met  him  the  last  time  I  was  in  Eng- 
land. We  lunched  together  and  he  asked  me  down 
to  Norwiches  for  the  shooting." 

Lance  forced  a  faded  smile. 

"Norwiches  is  sold,  General,"  he  said  tentatively, 
as  he  tapped  a  cigarette  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 
"I  think  that  was  the  beginning  of  a  swift  end  as 


128        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

far  as  the  pater  was  concerned.  His  affairs  were 
terribly  involved,  you  'know.  The  only  footing  we 
have  left  is  the  little  place  in  Gloucestershire." 

"Where  your  mother  still  lives,  in  health  and 
happiness,  I  trust?" 

"My  mother  is  very  well,  thanks.  She  was  With 
me  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"Here — in  North  Africa?" 

The  younger  man  nodded. 

"In  Constantine.  She  came  out  for  six  months, 
to  stay  with  me  till  I  got  the  new  job  shipshape. 
I've  a  consular  post  here." 

"So  I  understand." 

"But,  unfortunately,  just  before  we  were  due 
to  come  here  my  uncle  took  it  into  his  head  to 
be  sick  unto  death,  and  by  way  of  a  sort  of  dying 
repentance  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  obtain  the 
mater's  forgiveness — at  least,  either  that  or  the 
hope  that  she  will  help  to  keep  him  clear  a  little 
longer  of  the  flaming  gates.'^ 

He  spoke  without  sympathy,  his  only  emotion 
being  one  of  deep-rooted  scorn. 

"Let's  see — wasn't  your  uncle  the  well-to-do  one 
of  the  family?" 

Bailey  was  essentially  a  materialist. 

Railsford  looked  glum. 

"The  governor  happened  to  be  the  younger  son, 
and,  like  Benjamin,  received  little  besides  a  bless- 
ing. Not  that  that  availed  him  much.  As  you 
know,"  with  a  hard  laugh,  "it  was  always  a  pretty 
hard  job  to  make  ends  meet." 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       129 

Bailey's  sun-smitten  face  took  on  a  questioning 
look. 

"I  suppose  it  hasn't  occurred  to  you,  Lance,  that 
being  the  only  male  Railsford  left,  there  may  be  a 
chance  of  one  day  coming  into  your  uncle's  for- 
tune?" 

Lance  sneered  as  he  tossed  his  cigarette  end 
into  the  cool  waters  of  the  fountain  below  the  ver- 
andah. The  glow  expired  with  a  sharp  sizzle  that 
covered  the  exclamation  of  derision. 

"It  has  occurred  to  me — as  one  of  those  possibili- 
ties not  in  the  least  likely  to  happen.  I'm  afraid 
that  sounds  rather  paradoxical.  Frankly,  Uncle 
Hugh  doesn^t  interest  me.  Now,  tell  me,  what 
brings  you  here?" 

Bailey  leaned  back  and  casually  blew  smoke  rings 
into  the  shimmering  sunshine. 

"My  dear  chap,  I've  spent  the  best  part  of  my 
misused  life,  and  certainly  the  bulk  of  a  commuted 
pension,  in  wandering  about  North  Africa.  I  find 
it  cheap:  I've  a  host  of  friends;  there's  plenty  of 
sport  to  be  picked  up  .  .  .  and  what  more  can  a 
fellow  want?  Thank  God,  I'm  not  married,  so  I 
haven't  that  responsibilit}-.  I  can't  afford  to  live 
in  England  so  I  just  make  the  best  of  a  very  pleas- 
ant existence  by  following  the  inclinations  of  a 
desert  Ishmael.  I  made  El  Bouira  three  days 
ago " 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  fortune  didn't  you  look 
me  up  before?  I'm  fixed  here  permanently.  At 
least,"  a  disgruntled  edge  to  his  voice,  "I  suppose  I 


130        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

am.  Of  course  you've  heard  I'm  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"I  have."  The  admission  was  not  enthusiastic. 
"The  place  is  full  of  it.  I  heard  it  first  at  Mrs. 
Nelleton's.  I  arrived  just  in  time  to  'do'  a  garden- 
party.  Later  it  cropped  up  at  the  English  club. 
Since  then,  my  dear  fellow*"  eyeing  his  young 
companion  with  a  regretful  look,  "I've  heard  little 
else." 

"Oh!"  Lance's  tone  was  mildly  questioning. 
"Is  a  wedding  out  here  such  an  untoward  event  ?'^ 

Bailey's  glance  took  in  both  ends  of  the  terrace 
and  the  entrance  to  the  hotel.  The  place  slum- 
bered in  perfect  stillness. 

The  General  dropped  back,  his  hands  clasped 
about  his  knee. 

"I  knew  your  father  very  well,  Lance.  He  and  I 
were  great  friends  since  .  .  .  well — as  long  as  I 
can  remember.  His  dearest  wish  was  for  the 
happiness  and  well-being  of  his  only  son.  My 
boy,"  rising  and  laying  a  kindly  hand  on  the 
younger  man's  shoulder,  "you  don't  think  I'm  an 
interfering,  meddling  old  fool?" 

Lance  looked  up. 

"General!     Of  course  I  don't.     But  why ?'* 

"Why  am  I  taking  on  myself  to  talk  to  you  about 
your  own  affairs — an  affair  which  you  might  say 
concerns  you  alone?  Because,  Lance,  you  are  the 
son  of  my  dead  friend  .  .  .  because  I  want  to  see 
you  as  happily  married  as  he  was.     I've  heard " 

"Yes?" 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       131 

"That  you  are  marrying  a  lady  of  colour.  Is 
that  so?" 

Lance  smiled — a  rather  jaded  smile,  it  must  be 
confessed. 

"Quite  true,  General.  I'm  engaged  to  Miss 
Medene,  the  daughter  of  an  Arab  sheikh.  We  met 
three  years  ago  in  London.  I  fell  in  love  with 
her  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sorry."  Bailey  looked  shocked.  "Very 
sorry — for  both  your  sakes." 

"But  why?"  the  other  asked,  knowing  full  well 
what  the  answer  would  be.  "What  does  it  matter 
who  a  fellow  marries  so  long  as  he's  happy  in  his 
choice?" 

Bailey  spoke  gravely. 

"I'm  not  an  experienced  man.  Lance.  If  ever 
a  fellow  has  knocked  about  the  world,  touched 
society  at  its  lowest  and  highest,  I  have.  And,  as 
you  know,  the  greater  part  of  my  life  has  been 
spent  East  of  Suez — mostly  in  India.  There,  es- 
pecially, I've  seen  the  consequences  of  unions  such 
as  you  contemplate.  You  could  not  make  a  bigger 
mistake." 

"You  forget,  General:  Miss  Medene  is  the 
daughter  of  a  well-bom,  highly-cultured  Arab. 
The  sheikh " 

The  other  lifted  his  hands. 

"You  know  the  Jines,  'East  is  east  .  .  .  '  I 
won't  repeat  them.  By  Jove,  they're  the  truest 
ever  written  on  the  question  of  colour." 

"But  there  ar^  degrees,"  Lance  persisted. 


132       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SA:NDS 

Bailey  negatived  the  suggestion  with  a  lift  of  his 
hand. 

"There  are  no  degrees.  The  streak  is  there, 
whether  full  or  slight  It  is  bound  to  come  to  the 
top.  You  can't  hide  it.  Stop  me,  if  I  am  saying 
too  much." 

"I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind." 

"My  boy,  it's  for  your  good.  IVb  a  duty  I  owe  to 
my  dead  friend — to  warn  you  in  time." 

Railsford  looked  serious. 

"I  know  people  have  been  talking.  They  always 
do  in  an  isolated  place.  If  they  didn't  they'd  die 
of  ennui.  So  they've  seized  upon  my  approaching 
marriage  as  a  subject  for  gossip." 

"It  isn't  that  altogether,"  the  other  replied. 
"Agreed^  they  Jike  to  talk.  And  marriage  be- 
tween a  white  man  and  a  native,  or  vice  versa, 
always  provides  fruitful  ground.  I'm  not  think- 
ing of  them  at  all.  Lance;  I'm  thinking  only  of 
you  .  .  .  and  as  your  father's  friend,  I  beg  of  you 
to  reconsider  your  decision  .  .  .  and  not  to  marry 
this  Arab  girl." 

Lance  pretended  to  take  the  matter  lightly. 

"Of  course  I  can't  do  that.  General.  My  engage- 
ment has  been  publicly  announced  and  everything 
is  ready — in  fact,  the  wedding  will  take  place 
within  a  week.  I've  hired  a  house,  put  new  furni- 
ture in,  and  generally  made  the  usual  arrange- 
ments for  settling  down.  Apart  from  which  if  I 
don't  marry  Saada  I  certainly  shouldn't  want  to 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       133 

marry  any  one  else.  You  wouldn't  like  to  see  me  go 
through  life  a  benedict?" 

Bailey's  grizzled  brows  rose.  He  grunted 
audibly  as  he  leaned  forward  to  pick  up  his  glass. 
With  his  fingers  round  the  tumbler  he  looked 
across  at  Railsford. 

"I  always  had  a  notion,  young  man,  that  you 
would  do  big  things."  His  manner  was  gruff, 
though  kindly.  "At  Cambridge  you  did  remark- 
ably well.  In  the  Service  you're  thought  a  great 
deal  more  of  than  perhaps  you  imagine.  I  know 
.  .  .  because  I  knock  about  from  one  corner  of 
the  globe  to  another.  I've  heard  you  spoken  of  as 
far  apart  as  Singapore  and  Bagdad — as  a  coming 
man.  You  can  guess  what  that  means — some  one 
high  up  has  marked  you  for  promotion.  D'you 
think  you'll  ever  get  it  .  .  .  tied  for  Hfe  to  a 
native  woman?" 

The  look  in  Railsford's  eyes  became  graver. 
For  years  he  had  worked  and  waited  for  the  chance 
which  El  Bouira  had  brought — his  first  step  to  a 
big  appointment  in  the  East.  And  no  longer  could 
he  hide  from  himself  the  fact  that  money  and  po- 
sition meant  a  very  great  deal.  At  home  things 
were  uncommonly  tight,  and  every  year  his  moth- 
er's income  was  dwindling  so  much  that  before 
long — unless  he  himself  could  save  the  situation 
— the  last  bit  of  Railsford  property  must  go  into 
the  market. 

"I  had  a  long  tough  fight — to  bring  myself  to 


134        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

talk  to  you  like  this,"  Bailey  went  on.  "When 
first  I  heard  the  news  I  was  tempted  to  say  nothing. 
Then  fragments  of  idle  talk  began  to  reach  me: 
bits  of  gossip  retailed  in  the  club  and  business 
quarters  in  thQ  town.  I  merf;  men — and  women 
too — with  whom  you  ought  to  be  friendly.  I  find 
one  and  all  have  decided  to  cold-shoulder  you  if 
this  marriage  takes  place." 

Lance  set  down  his  glass  and  stared  in  blank 
astonishment  at  his  friend. 

"Good  Lord,  General,  will  it  be  as  bad  as  all 
that?" 

Bailey  eyed  him  steadily. 

"My  dear  boy,  it  will  be  a  hundred  times  worse. 
You're  simply  committing  social  suicide.  I  don't 
know  the  young  lady — she  may  be,  possibly  is,  the 
most  charming  person  in  the  world ;  most  of  these 
educated  coloured  women  are — but  shie's  a  nigger, 
and " 

"There  I'm  inclined  to  disagree  with  you,"  re- 
plied Lance  obstinately.  "To  my  mind  a  nigger  is 
a  black,  and  Miss  Medene  i^  no  more  black  than 
you  or  L  In  fact,  General ;  unless  any  one  told  you 
she  was  Arab,  you  would  put  her  down  as  Euro- 
pean with  an  early  Oriental  upbringing.  She  is 
dark  .  .  .  every  girl  brought  up  from  her  birth  in 
the  East  is.  The  sun  produces  a  darkness  of  hair 
and  a  tanned  skin  which  never  entirely  vanishes. 
Look  at  yourself,  now — as  brown  as  a  berry,  as 
bronzed  as  any  native.  That  wouldn't  keep  you, 
General,  from  marrying  an  English  girl?'^ 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       135 

Bailey  bowed  in  acknowledgment. 

"Admitted!  Admitted!  But  in  the  first  place 
this  is  a  question  of  blood.  All  Arabs  belong  to 
the  black  races.  True,  at  one  time  they  reached 
a  degree  of  civilization  so  high  that  to  this  day 
it  has  left  its  mark  on  Western  Europe — on  Spain 
in  particular.  But  the  argument  has  been  worn 
threadbare;  the  root-s  of  many  of  our  sciences  are 
buried  deep  in  a  civilization  which  was  old  when 
our  land  was  still  in  the  dark  ages  of  barbarism. 
I  mean  the  Chinese.  Would  you,  on  this  account, 
marry  a  yellow  girl?" 

"Arabs  are  different  altogether  from  Chinks." 

"In  what  respect?  Shall  I  tell  you?  It  won't 
sound  pleasant,  partly  because  it  is  so  true.  The 
yellow  races  are  moral,  their  moral  code  based 
on  the  strictest  in  the  world,  Buddhism  and  Con- 
fucianism, The  Arabs  are  not;  from  the  Little 
Sahara  to  the  sea,  from  Arabia  to  Morocco,  a  lasciv- 
ious, sensual,  passion-loving  people.  It  is  in  their 
blood,  the  heritage  of  the  ages;  and  to  transmit 
such  through  a  white  strain  is  about  as  mad  a 
proposition  as  any  sane  man  could  contemplate." 

Lance  sat  up  very  straight,  his  hands  nervously 
interlocked.  Tiere  was  something  rather  alarm- 
ing in  the  line  of  reflection  Bailey  had  started. 

"I — I  hadn't  thought  much  about  that.  To  me 
Saada  seems  the  same  as  any  other  nice  girl.  I've 
never  really  associated  her  with  Eastern  ideas  and 
Eastern  ways." 

Bailey  lay  back  staring  up  at  the  matchless  blue 


136        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

of  the  sky  shimmering  behind  a  haze  of  sunlight. 
The  hot  air  was  drowsy  with  the  perfume  of  flowers, 
and  the  music  of  bird  and  insect  life  produced  a 
curiously  lulling  effect. 

"You  feel  all  this,  don't  you?"  he  said,  raising 
his  arm.  "The  pulsing  heat,  the  pleasant  drug- 
ging of  the  senses,  are  part  of  the  lure  and  charm  of 
Africa.  But  think  of  it — how  for  a  thousand 
years  it  has  eaten  into  the  hearts  and  lives  of  these 
people.  Look  at  the  women — rich  and  poor,  high 
or  low.  Shut  away,  languorous,  effete  .  .  .  their 
natures  amorous  and  sensual.  They  dream,  talk, 
live  on  love  ...  on  sheer  animal  passion.  And 
the  men  are  worse,  thanks  to  the  polygamy  allowed 
by  the  Mohammedan  law.  Call  it  a  religion  if 
you  like.  I  call  it  a  creed  of  lust,  of  legalized 
pandering  to  the  lowest  instincts  in  man.  They 
are  not  altogether  to  be  blamed:  climatic  con- 
ditions and  easy  circumstances  are  largely  respon- 
sible, coupled  with  the  fact  that  out  here  Nature 
seems  to  cast  all  her  women  in  a  lovely  mould." 

"I  have  always  thought  them  strictly  moral/^ 
protested  Railsford. 

"According  to  their  lights,  yes ;  because  life  here 
and  life  hereafter,  the  myriad  years  of  Paradise  at 
the  back  of  all  their  faith,  means  nothing  more 
than  the  physical  love  of  men  for  women  and 
women  for  men.  Look  at  their  literature,  in  which 
they  are  soaked  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave ;  is  it 
anything  better  than  a  perpetual  encouragement 
to  unbridled  passion?" 


THE  MAN-  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       137 

"You  are  speaking  of  a  people,  not  of  individ- 
uals." 

Bailey  bowed. 

"Exactly.  There  you  hit  the  right  nail  on  the 
head.  But  remember  each  individual  is  represent- 
ative of  the  whole.  That  is  why  all  whites  hang 
together  and  array  themselves  against  blacks, 
brown,  and  yellow.  We  belong  to  a  race  which 
possesses,  and  always  has  done,  an  instinctive  re- 
pulsion against  the  order  of  colour.  We  know 
from  history,  from  personal  experience,  that  the 
two  things  can  never  be  successfully  blended. 
There  are  religious  reasons,  social  reasons,  physi- 
ological reasons,  and  they  all  tend  to  keep  white 
and  coloured  blood  apart." 

"There  have  been  happy  marriages." 

"As  rare,  my  boy,  as  the  dodo.  Yours  might  be 
one  of  the  great  exceptions.  But,  all  things  con- 
sidered, the  risk  is  too  great.  Look  at  the  social 
side  first — how  many  men  are  big  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  stand  up  under  it :  the  isolation, 
the  contempt,  the  cold-shouldering?  I've  seen  so 
much  in  India — the  once-honoured  Englishman 
shorn  of  his  friends,  of  caste,  of  that  respect  which 
is  part  and  parcel  of  the  existence  in  a  foreign 
land.  He  retires,  or  rather  is  retired,  to  the  se- 
clusion of  his  own  family  circle.  Children  come 
along :  hated  by  their  mother  because  they  possess 
the  pride  and  ambition  of  their  father ;  despised  by 
him  because  those  selfsame  qualities  fail  to  ring 
true.     To  him  they  are  make-believe,  sham,  a  rest- 


138       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

less  striving  for  something  they  can  never  attain. 
They  grow  up  scorned  by  their  own  people,  de- 
spised by  the  white  race  to  which  they  aspire.  The 
world  shuns  them ;  they  are  less  than  the  dust,  and 
all  through  the  years  they  stand  at  a  barred  gate, 
looking  towards  a  Land  of  Promise  they  can  never 
reach." 

Kailsford  was  visibly  affected.  This  man  had 
touched  chords  long  dormant:  pride  of  birth, 
and  of  tradition,  the  heritage  of  the  well-born  Eng- 
lishman. 

Bailey  continued,  speaking  with  a  sincerity  in 
which  he  faithfully  believed, 

"I  understand,  perhaps  as  well  as  you,  the  charm 
and  lure  of  the  East.  It  searches  most  men  in 
their  time ;  finds  out  a  few  and  leaves  them  in  a  hell 
of  their  own  making.  The  women  are  beautiful; 
eveiything  here  is  beautiful,  from  the  uprising  to 
the  going  down  of  the  sun.  But  afterwards  comes 
the  dark,  which  only  eyes  trained  to  see  can  pene- 
trate. Lance,  I  want  you  to  see  before  it  is  too 
late." 

"Why— why  didn't  I  think  of  all  this  before?" 
he  asked  suddenly,  and  pushing  back  his  chair, 
moved  out  of  the  sunlight  into  the  cool  shadow  of 
the  trees.  "In  England  one  never  gave  a  moment 
to  such  thoughts." 

Bailey  regarded  him  over  his  shoulder. 

"Surely  your  mother,  as  a  woman  of  the 
world " 

"Mother  has  never  been  quite  happy  about  it.    It 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD       139 

seemed  to  me,  though,  she  was  thinking  more  of 
social  position  than  of  my  happiness." 

"My  dear  boy,  the  two  are  inextricably  mixed  up. 
How  can  a  man  be  happy  when  he  finds  the  whole 
world — his  world — against  him?  Let  him  be  one 
of  those  rare  and  wonderful  cases  who  loves  his 
wife,  be  she  red,  black,  or  yellow,  more  than  the 
opinions  and  the  treatment  he  receives  from  his 
fellows.  He  is  still  burnt  up  when  he  looks  upon 
the  treatment  accorded  her.  And  worse  is  to  fol- 
low. When  the  children  come  .  .  .  what  is  their 
fate?  It  always  ends  the  same  way.  If  the  par- 
ents live  in  England,  the  poor  little  devils  are  ban- 
ished to  the  East  .  .  .  and  the  mother's  heart  is 
broken.  If  the  father  and  mother  live  out  East 
they  are  sent  home  to  be  put  to  school  or  farmed 
out  among  money-grabbers.  Either  way  the  family 
circle  is  broken,  and  there  is  general  unhappiness 
and  dissatisfaction  all  round." 

Lance  drew  up  and  stared  unsteadily  into  the 
burning  eye  of  the  sun.  On  his  face  the  moisture 
stood  out  in  tiny  beads ;  both  mind  and  body  were 
conscious  of  acute  discomfort. 

"I'm  afraid  ...  I  must  confess,"  he  admitted 
slowly,  "Saada  herself  tried  to  put  all  this  to  me, 
though  not  in  quite  such  detail." 

The  General  sighed. 

"You  appear  to  have  been  adequately  warned. 
Heaven  knows,  I  wouldn't  have  opened  my  mouth 
had  it  not  been  for  the  talk  going  round  in  El 
Bouira.     Then  I  thought  of  your  father,  and  what 


140        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

he  would  wish  were  he  alive.  And  I  thought,  too, 
of  a  promising  career  nipped  in  the  bud." 

Railsford  walked  to  the  end  of  the  verandah  and 
came  back  to  the  table. 

"Frankly,  I  haven't  paid  as  much  attention  to 
the  future  as  I  should  have  done,"  he  admitted 
thoughtfully.  "Do  you  really  believe  it  will  make 
so  much  difference?     Thanks,  I  won't  smoke  now.'^ 

Bailey  lit  another  cigarette. 

"You  know  the  Service,  Lance — ^the  closest  cor- 
poration in  the  world;  and  rightly  so,  because  it 
represents  an  Empire.  You  fellows  of  the  con- 
sular and  diplomatic  service  are  the  vanguard  of  a 
great  tradition.  These  people  look  up  to  you,  re- 
spect you.  Do  they  ever  respect  a  white  man  who 
descends  to  their  own  level?  Not  much !  They  re- 
gard him  as  one  of  themselves  and  all  respect  dis- 
appears. Conversely,  the  same  holds  good.  One 
meets  lots  of  important  folk  in  the  East — mer- 
chants, travellers,  scientists,  Government  officials 
and  military  big-bugs.  They  are  all  an  insepa- 
rable part  of  your  existence.  Together  they  make 
or  break  you ;  and  with  a  coloured  wife  you  would 
be  broken  in  six  months." 

"The  picture  certainly  doesn't  look  too  attract- 
ive," Lance  said,  laughing  weakly. 

The  General  reached  up  and  touched  the  other's 
sleeve. 

"You've  seen  the  attractive  side  and  succumbed 
to  it — the  lure,  possibly,  of  a  pretty  face  and 
charming  manner.     Mind  you,  I  feel  horrible  in 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDEKSTOOD       141 

talking  like  this.  Miss  Medene  is  no  doubt  a  most 
charming  girl :  from  all  accounts,  I  believe  she  is 
.  .  .  and  certainly  her  old  father  has  a  fine  rep- 
utation everywhere.  But  my  contention  is,  and 
always  will  be,  you  cannot,  with  satisfactory  re- 
sults, mix  English  and  Arab  blood.  However" 
' — he  jumped  up  and  dusted  the  sprinkle  of  fine 
sand  from  his  clothes — "I  hope  I  haven't  exceeded 
my  privilege  as  an  old  family  friend?" 

"Of  course.  General,  I  understand.  You  are 
thinking  of  my  good." 

"Absolutely,  my  boy,  absolutely.  I'm  a  rolling 
stone,  and  goodness  knows  I've  gathered  little 
enough  moss.  But  at  least  I've  escaped  the  fate 
reserved  for  so  many  of  my  friends.  I'd  like  to  see 
you  doing — well,  just  what  your  father  would  wish. 
You'll  excuse  me  for  hurrying  away?" 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner  and  meet  Miss 
Medene?  Perhaps  then  you  might  feel  differently 
about  her." 

Bailey  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Thanks,  but  I  must  be  off.  I  promised  to  dine 
with  Professor  Phillipson  and  his  wife  at  their 
villa.  He's  planning  a  new  expedition  across  the 
Sahara,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  with  him.  They 
leave  tomorrow,  so  you  see  .  .  ." 

Lance  left  him  at  the  end  of  the  gardens  and 
watched  the  fine  soldierly  figure  swing  down  the 
road  through  the  rose-coloured  twilight.  He  went 
back  to  his  seat  on  the  verandah  feeling  curiously  ill 
at  ease.    A  score  of  times  he  wished  Bailey  had  not 


142        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

found  him-^to  resurrect  doubts  which  both  Saada 
and  his  mother  in  turn  had  raised  in  his  mind. 

The  solitude  bothered  him:  he  went  in  for  his 
hat,  and  turning  his  back  on  the  hotel,  hurried 
through  the  town  in  the  direction  of  the  villa. 

Saada  met  him  on  the  steps  of  the  canopied 
pavilion.     She  looked  tired,  but  happy. 

"Come  and  see  what  we  have  made  of  your  room, 
dear,"  she  said,  linking  her  arm  through  his. 

He  passed  into  the  delicious  coolness  of  the  high 
apartments  hung  with  Oriental  draperies  and 
hangings.  The  floors  were  dotted  with  nacre- 
topped  tables;  brass  braziers  of  native  workman- 
ship stood  in  the  recesses.  And  about  the  stone 
columns  supporting  the  Moorish  horseshoe  arches, 
flowers  were  banked  in  immense  tubs  of  Kabyle 
pottery.  The  effect  was  soothing  and  purely  East- 
ern ;  a  perfume  like  the  smell  of  incense  hung  in  the 
air.  He  glanced  at  Saada,  a  truly  Eastern  figure 
surrounded  by  the  beauties  of  her  home,  and  the 
GeneraFs  warning  recurred  with  added  force. 
Insensibly  the  West  was  bein-g  merged  in  the  subtle 
influence  of  the  Orient. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  SACEED  CIRCLE 

LAJNCE  followed  Saada  from  one  room  to 
another,  trying  hard  to  share  her  enthu- 
iasm,  yet  secretly  troubled  by  the  effect 
which  the  surroundings  produced.  He  knew  that 
the  house  was  beautiful,  but  the  quick  falling  of  the 
twilight  filled  the  place  with  shadows  and  pro- 
duced a  sombreness  as  heavy  as  his  own  grey 
thoughts.  The  lamps  had  not  been  lighted,  and 
they  hung  from  the  high  ceilings,  dead,  bulbous 
shapes  as  unresponsive  as  himself. 

He  felt  he  ought  at  least  to  try  and  S'how  pleasure, 
for  Sheikh  Medene,  out  of  the  goodness  of  his  big, 
generous  heart,  had  stripped  his  once  beautiful 
home  of  many  of  its  choicest  treasures.  The  cabi- 
net in  the  drawing-room  was  filled  with  rare  speci- 
mens of  Tunisian  glass — crystal  bowls  shaped  as 
turbans,  plates  and  dishes  of  rare  enamel,  gold 
ornaments  heavily  chased,  bangles  and  khal-khals 
of  beaten  silver,  and  a  set  of  plaques  jewelled  with 
precious  stones,  heirlooms  that  had  been  for 
centuries  in  the  possession  of  the  Medene  family. 

In  the  vestibule  and  dining-room  were  big  oaken 
coffers  wondrously  carved  and  ornamented  with 
Arabesque  designs  in  brass:  to  Railsford,  in  the 

143 


144        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

gloom,  they  seemed  merely  depressing.  Even  the 
pains  which  Saada  had  taken  to  make  his  study  the 
last  thing  in  comfort  drew  nothing  more  than  an 
ungracious  nod  of  lukewarm  approval,  and  many 
times  as  he  followed  her  upstairs  and  down  he 
wished  General  Bailey  and  his  well-meaning 
advice  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

By  the  time  Saada  locked  the  front  door  behind 
her  the  western  glow  had  melted  from  tawny  gold 
into  the  velvety  blueness  which  precedes  the  up- 
rising of  the  moon.  The  road  stretched  like  a  bar 
of  silver  to  the  wall  that  still  seemed  to  keep  guard 
over  the  ancient  Arab  town.  Along  the  road  rolled 
open  carriages  conveying  members  of  English  and 
French  families  to  visit  friends  in  the  villas  on  the 
fringe  of  the  oases  of  El  Oukrit.  Some  of  them 
merely  nodded  coldly  to  the  distin-guished  look- 
ing Englishman;  others,  taking  advantage  of  the 
gloom,  passed  on  without  even  offering  salutations. 

The  studied  rudeness  was  not  lost  on  the  aged 
sheikh.  He  had  seen  so  much  of  it  in  the  last  few 
weeks.  He  walked  proudly,  his  head  high,  his 
slight  frame  as  rigid  as  the  gold-topped  cane  in  his 
twitching  hand.  That  which,  all  along,  he  had 
feared  in  secret  was  surely  coming  to  pass:  the 
white  population  of  El  Bouira  was  resentful  at  the 
Intrusion  of  his  daughter  into  the  sacred  circle. 
He  kept  his  thin  lips  tight  and  his  hawk-like  face 
grim,  but  there  leapt  to  his  eyes  a  flash  of  angry 
scorn  when  he  looked  at  Saada. 

She  hastened  on,  however,  chatting  gaily  at  her 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  145 

sweetheart's  side  as  though  nothing  untoward  had 
happened.  When  they  reached  the  hotel  the  place 
was  already  humming  with  animation,  every 
window  a  blaze  of  light,  the  soft  cadence  of  a 
stringed  band  coming  from  the  crowded  dining- 
room.  In  the  courtyard  at  the  side  a  number  of 
motors  were  parked,  the  chauffeurs  busy  handing 
down  luggage  to  perspiring  Arab  porters. 

"A  large  party  in  from  Biskra,"  Lance  remarked, 
as  they  ascended  the  steps.  "We've  driven  it 
rather  late.     Can  you  manage  to  change  quickly?" 

Saada  nodded  and  hurried  off  to  her  room.  In 
the  bustle  she  had  little  time  to  reflect  on  the  dis- 
appointment which  Lance's  reception  of  her  efforts 
had  caused.  Fresh  visitors  were  arriving — diners 
out  from  the  residential  quarter — glad  to  get  away 
from  the  town  after  the  day's  work  was  done.  As 
she  went  down  with  Lance  and  her  father  she  rec- 
ognized several  to  whom  she  had  been  introduced 
since  her  arrival :  all  were  too  busy  studying  menu 
cards  to  look  up. 

The  general  atmosphere  was  charged  with  an  air 
of  gaiety.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  talking,  the 
new-comers  chatting  over  the  events  of  their  long 
journey.  In  such*  an  assemblage  of  sound  and 
animation  one  quickly  becomes  conscious  of  the 
existence  of  a  little  backwater  where  quiet  reigns. 
Seated  at  a  small  table  near  to  Saada  and  her 
companions  were  a  silent  couple  who  might  have 
belonged*  altogether  to  a  different  order  of  things — 
a  thick-set  dwarfish-looking   man   with   a  round 


146       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

smiling  face,  as  red  and  glowing  as  the  sun  at  dawn, 
and  a  girl,  apparently  his  daughter. 

The  couple  attracted  Saada's  attention  immedi- 
ately, for  it  was  obvious  they  had"  travelled  with 
the  party,  and  yet  were  not  of  them ;  two  of  life's 
misfits  who  find  difficulty  in  accommodating  them- 
selves to  an  unaccustomed  position.  Unlike  all  the 
rest,  who  were  in  evening  dress,  the  man  wore  a 
much-used  suit  of  tweeds — a  sports  jacket,  breeches, 
coloured  stockings  and  serviceable  brown  boots. 
From  the  crown  of  his  shock  of  straw-coloured 
hair,  slightly  streaked  with  silver,  to  the  soles  of 
his  large  feet,  he  looked  what  indeed  he  was — ^a 
rough  diamond. 

That  nobody  except  the  waiters  appeared  to  pay 
the  slightest  attention  to  him,  apparently  did  not 
bother  him  at  all ;  in  a  strong  voice  redolent  with  a 
perfect  East  End  accent  he  gave  his  orders  in  a 
spirit  of  marked  good-humour. 

Saada  strove  hard  to  repress  a  smile  as  she  heard 
him  say, 

"Entry  cot.  What's  an  entrycot  o'  mutton? 
Blest  if  I  know.  Do  you,  Hetty?  Oh,  that's  what 
it  is,  is  it?  Well,  bring  some,  waiter.  I  daresay 
it's  very  noice,  and  if  it  ain't,  I  shan't  blame  you. 
Drinks!  Champagne?  Not  a  bit  of  it,  lad;  I 
never  touch  the  stuff,  but  if  you  can  mix  up  suthin* 
sweet  and  nice-tastin'  for  that  gel  o'  mine,  quite 
teetotal,  you  know,  well,  she'll  bless  you  wi'  them 
kind  eyes  of  hers  .  .  .  and  here's  something  to  pay 
you  for  your  trouble.     Now,  listen,  garsong,"  lay- 


THE  SACKED  CIRCLE  147 

ing  a  big  coarse  hand  familiarly  on  the  waiter's 
arm.  "Me  and  mine — this  is  mine,"  pointing  to 
the  pleasant-faced  girl,  "is  here  for  a  couple  o' 
months ;  and  if  you  look  after  Theodore  Snitch  and 
Co. — take  my  word  for  it,  he'll  look  after  you." 

Saada  felt  irresistibly  drawn  to  the  small  Snitch 
family  of  two:  a  father  whose  proud  eye  scarcely 
ever  left  his  plain  daughter's  face,  and  a  daughter 
who  anticijDated  every  wish  of  her  rough,  good- 
natured  father.  The  way  in  which  each  looked 
after  the  other  was  wonderful;  a  dozen  times  he 
asked  her  if  she  was  "liking  all  she'd  got" ;  and  a 
dozen  times  she  restrained  her  healthy  appetite 
to  attend  to  her  father's  simple  requirements. 

Lance,  too,  had  noticed  them.  He  turned  to 
Saada  after  a  prolonged  stare,  during  which  diverse 
emotions  chased  across  his  aristocratic  face, 

"Really,  I  don't  know  what  the  times  are  com- 
ing to.  That  fellow  on  your  right  is  obviously  one 
of  the  nouveau  riche^  a  war-profiteer,  by  the  look  of 
him.  Look  at  the  way  he  eats — as  though  he 
hadn't  tasted  food  for  a  week.  I  really  think 
people  like  that  might  have  the  decency  to  put  up 
at  a  hotel  where  they  can  mix  with  men  and  women 
of  their  own  stamp." 

Saada  smiled  sweetly. 

"But,  dear,  they're  ever  so  hungry,"  she  remon- 
strated gently.  "I  heard  the  lady  at  the  table 
behind  you  saying  that  a  mishap  had  occurred  to 
the  car  in  which  nine  of  them  were  travelling  and 
that  they  were  held  up  for  two  days  in  the  desert 


148        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

.  .  .  without  food  or  wuter — except  for  a  lunch- 
eon-basket which  Mr.  Snitch  had  with  him." 

Railsford  grimaced. 

"Trust  any  one  with  a  name  like  that  to  look 
after  himself.    Well !" 

"And  he  insisted  on  sharing  it  with  the  rest. 
I  think  it's  a  shame  that  any  one  should  be  cold- 
shouldered  simply  because  they  haven't  quite  as 
much  veneer  as  so-called  gentle  people." 

Railsford  turned  his  head. 

"What  I  complain  of  is,  they  do  things  which 
aren't  done,  so  to  speak,  in  decent  society.  Look 
at  the  girl  now  .  .  .  using  her  napkin  like  a  hand- 
kerchief;  and  the  old  man  pointing  out  the  beau- 
ties of  ceiling  decoration  with  his  knife  and  fork. 
You  can't  wonder  at  their  being  cold-shouldered." 

An  aristocratic  young  man  in  faultless  evening 
dress  was  crossing  the  large  dining-hall,  followed 
by  a  friend.  He  paused  half-way  to  light  a  cigar- 
ette ;  the  match-flame  showed  up  the  black  intaglio 
of  arms  with  supporters  in  his  ring.  He  came  to 
where  Railsford  sat,  nodded  frigidly  to  Saada  and 
her  father,  then  said,  with  a  hee-haw  in  his  voice 
as  he  set  his  hands  on  the  table, 

"I  say,  Railsford,  old  fruit,  you  didn't  roll  up  for 
that  handicap.  We're  playing  it  off  tonight. 
Can't  you  possibly  manage  to  come  along?" 

Lance  glanced  across  at  Saada. 

"I'm  afraid,  Featherstone,  I'm  engaged  for  this 
evening.     I  should  like  to,  but " 

"My  dear,  why  don't  you?"  Saada  interposed 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  149 

quickly.  "You  love  billiards  and  you'd  enjoy  your- 
self ever  so  much.  Father  will  be  going  to  bed, 
and  I've  such  heaps  of  things  to  do." 

"I  certainly  should  love  to  come,"  Railsford  ad- 
mitted. "Are  you  sure,  dear,  you  won't  feel 
lonely?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"Really,  I  wish  you'd  go.  I  must  look  over  my 
clothes." 

"Right  ho,  old  top.  We  shall  expect  you  at  the 
club  house  at  nine  o'clock." 

He  swung  round  on  his  heel,  and  lounged  out. 

"One  of  the  best,  is  old  Featherstone,"  Railsford 
mused,  bending  over  his  glass.  "Strange,  my  strik- 
ing him  here  after  eight  years.  He's  Lord  Brach- 
leigh's  heir,  you  know.  .  .  .  You're  very  quiet  to- 
night." 

"Am  I?" 

She  laughed  and  broke  the  train  of  reflection. 
She  was  thinking  she  preferred  the  Snitches  to  all 
the  Featherstones  inside  or  on  the  fringe  of 
Debrett. 

Lance  laid  down  his  serviette  and  followed  her 
to  the  door. 

"You  are  sure  you  don't  mind  my  going?  It 
rather  looks  as  though  I'm  neglecting  you."  The 
tone  was  only  mildly  self-condemning.  "But  as 
you've  so  much  to  do  .  .  ." 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  surge  as  the  diners 
thronged  into  the  vestibule  and  streamed  away  in 
little  knots  to  the  smoke-room,  the  drawing-room, 


150        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

or  the  terrace.  Saada  moved  to  the  hotel  steps 
to  wait  until  Lance  came  down.  Theodore  Snitch 
and  his  daughter,  looking  rather  out  of  place,  had 
hung  back  until  the  room  emptied.  At  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  the  girl  turned  to  her  father. 

"I've  several  letters  to  write:  you  go  and  enjoy 
your  cigar  in  the  garden." 

"Right!"  he  called  out  cheerily.  "And  when  I 
think  you're  through,  we'll  get  together  and  go  over 
Flaubert's  Salambo.  I  want  you  to  read  me  again 
that  bit  where  they  made  a  mess-up  of  the  Roman 
gentry's  gardens  and  set  Carthage  on  fire.  My, 
but  that  was  fine,  Het!  Don't  forget  to  look  the 
J)Ook  out." 

He  passed  out,  a  solitary  little  figure  as  he  stood 
alone  in  his  rough  tweeds,  while  the  well-dressed 
men  and  exquisitely-gowned  women  eddied  past 
and  were  lost  in  the  silence  of  the  grounds. 

The  sheikh  had  gone  to  his  room ;  in  a  little  while 
Bailsford  came  down,  a  light  dust-coat  over  his 
arm. 

"Don't  wait  up  for  me,  there's  a  dear  girl,"  he 
said  as  he  kissed  her.  "We  shall  probably  have 
a  late  sitting.  You'd  better  be  getting  along  to  the 
drawing-room  or  you'll  miss  the  coffee." 

"I  shall  come  with  you  as  far  as  the  gates,"  she 
said,  and  linking  her  arm  through  his,  they  went 
down  the  sanded  path  together. 

Saada  went  back  in  a  curiously  thoughtful  mood. 
Each  day  she  was  learning  more  and  more  of 
Lance's  character.     There  were  sides  to  it  of  which, 


THE  SACKED  CIRCLE  151 

in  the  first  flush  of  their  love,  she  had  never 
dreamed.  She  had  thought  him  so  high  above  all 
other  men.  By  degrees  she  was  becoming  conscious 
of  having  raised  an  idol  of  clay  liable  at  any  time  to 
crash  to  the  ground  and  break  in  a  hundred  pieces 
Tonight  he  had  shown  in  himself  a  reflection  of  his 
mother's  nature  .  .  .  and  the  picture  had  not  been 
good  to  look  upon. 

She  went  slowly  up  the  steps.  Behind  the  long 
windows  of  the  drawing-  and  smoke-rooms  an  eager 
throng  was  gathered  about  the  red-fezzed  and 
zouave-jacketed  Arab  waiters  serving  delicious 
Turkish  coffee  in  tiny  gilded  cups,  A  little  dis- 
tance off  Mr.  Snitch  was  leaning  over  the  balustrade 
deliberately  cutting  the  end  from  a  long  cigar. 
He  lifted  his  battered  panama  politely  as  Saada, 
a  slim,  graceful  figure  in  white,  appeared  at  the  top 
of  the  steps. 

She  made  a  pleasant  bow,  and  ventured,  in  a 
friendly  tone, 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  get  your  coffee  unless  you 
go  quickly.  It  is  so  delicious,  and  very  much 
sought  after.  .  .  ." 

Theodore  Snitch  beamed. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  it's  very  kind  of  you  to 
take  interest  in  a  stranger  like  me.  I'm  not  want- 
ing any,  thanks  .  .  .  but  if,  as  you  say,  there's  a 
rush  on  it  so  as  them  what  don't  rush  don't  get, 
then  .  .  .  permit  me  .  .  ." 

He  stuffed  the  long  weed  in  his  vest  pocket,  ran 
lightly  across  the  vestibule  and  was  lost  among  the 


162       A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

coflPee-servers.  A  minute  later  he  reappeared,  per- 
spiring but  triumphant  ...  a  cup  in  one  hand  and 
a  chair  in  the  other. 

"Now,"  he  said,  setting  the  cup  on  the  marble- 
topped  table,  "just  you  sit  down  there  and  enjoy 
your  coffee  in  comfort.  Maybe  you'll  let  me  smoke 
and  talk  to  you.  I  love  some  one  to  talk  to. 
Funny,  ain't  it,  miss,  but  the  penalty  of  having 
made  a  cool  million  o'  money — p'r'aps  a  bit  more 
— by  sheer  hard  work,  is  that  no  one  among  your 
own  people  wants  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
you?" 

"Mind  you,  I'm  not  a  whiner,"  Snitch  went  on, 
leaning  back  in  the  bamboo  chair  while  his  ruddy, 
good-natured  face  beamed  up  at  the  stars.  "In 
my  short  time  I've  had  almost  as  many  knocks 
as  most  people — my,  it  would  break  my  Het's 
heart  to  hear  me  forgettin'  to  talk  proper:  I  do 
drop  back  into  the  real  Stratford  way;  but  you 
don't  mind,  do  you?  Well,  as  I  was  saying.  Miss 
— Miss— what's  your  name " 

"Saada  Medene." 

"Miss  Saada  Medene ;  that  sounds  real  pretty  to 
me  .  .  .  and  don't  forget  to  drink  your  coffee,  or 
you'll  find  it  so  thick  the  spoon'lj  stick  in  it. 
Where  "were  we?  Ah,  I  know!  Talking  about 
those  funny  people  here,  who  find  a  sense  o' 
humour  in  turning  the  frozen  eye  on  Theodore 
James  Snitch  and  his  daughter.  You've  never  met 
my  gel,  have  you?" 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  153 

"I  saw  her  with  you  at  dinner,"  Saada  replied. 
"I  thought  she  might  be  your  daughter." 

"And  as  fine  a  lass  as  ever  an  old  man  was 
blessed  with.  Excuse  me  smoking,  but  I  can't  do 
without  my  weed.  Strange  how  these  things  get 
a  hold  on  you."  He  cracked  a  seven-inch  Havana 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  "Time  was, 
young  lady,  when  I  used  to  smoke  a  cutty — the 
real  genuine  penny  clay  wi'  shag  in  it.  Then  I 
jumi)ed  to  a  bob  briar;  and  now  .  .  .  well,  at  six 
bob  each  these  are  meat  and  drink  to  me." 

"You  mustn't  smoke  too  many  or  you'll  be  get- 
ting ill,"  Saada  remonstrated  gently. 

The  little  man  laughed  and  showed  gold-filled 
teeth. 

"My  I  but  that  sounds  funny.  T.  J.  Snitch  be- 
ing ill !  Not  when  he's  got  a  first-class  nurse  like 
Henrietta  at  his  elbow !  Which  brings  me  back  to 
where  we  were  when  we  kicked  off — you  think  Hen- 
rietta a  nice  gel,  eh?" 

Saada  could  not  fail  to  catch  the  note  of  eager- 
ness behind  the  question. 

"I  should  think  she  is  a  very  nice  girl  indeed. 
She  has  a  sweet  face  and  appears  most  devoted  to 
you." 

Mr.  Snitch's  flat  palm  came  down  with  a  re- 
sounding slap  on  his  fat  knee. 

"You've  hit  it  .  .  .  she's  a  real  good  'un — one 
o'  the  best.  But,  d'you  know,"  the  humorous 
twinkle  dying  out  of  the  mild  eyes,  which  became 


154        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

grave,  "I'm  thinking  of  leaving  her,  of  cutting  the 
cable  between  her  and  the  old  dad  and  letting  her 
steer  a  course  all  on  her  own." 

"But  why?"  Saada  asked,  suddenly  interested. 

"Why?"  the  strange  little  man  proceeded.  "Be- 
cause you  see  what  keeping  an  old  tub  like  me  in 
tow  means.  Tonight  was  a  proof  of  it."  He  waved 
his  hand  and  indicated  the  lighted  windows  behind 
which  a  hundred  guests  were  gathered.  "D'you 
think  there's  one  among  that  crowd  wants  to  know 
my  gel  so  long  as  she's  hooked  up  to  me?  Not  a 
bit  of  it ;  not  a  little  bit.  For  all  his  money,  Theo- 
dore Snitch  ain't  good  enough.  .  .  .  But  I  tell  you 
— she's  worth  the  whole  lot  put  together.  There's 
not  a  man  or  w^oman  in  those  rooms,  for  all  their 
jewels  and  fine  clo's,  can  hold  a  candle  to  my  gel  for 
character.     She's  got  'em  alt  beaten  to  a  frazzle." 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  it,"  Saada  agreed. 

The  red  round  face  was  smiling  again. 

"I  like  talking  to  you.  It  does  me  good  .  .  .  sort 
of  safety-valve  to  T.  J.  S.  which  keeps  him  runnin' 
under  an  even  head  of  steam.  If  I  bottled  it  all 
up  too  long  I'd  go  off  pop  .  .  .  and  then,  my  hat ! 
the  bits  would  fly — and  there'd  be  a  mess  all  round. 
But  you've  got  onderstanding,  and  you  can  see  how 
it  irks  me  when  my  Hetty's  cold-shouldered  and 
glass-eyed  just  because  she's  got  an  old  dad  who's  a 
bit  rough  in  the  make-up.  I  felt  real  touched-up  to- 
night ...  as  she  and  me  sat  in  that  big  room  all 
alone.  Comic,  isn't  it,  to  feel  lonely  among  scores 
of  people?" 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  155 

The  simple  words  reached  a  soft  chord  in  Saada's 
heart.  There  was  a  warm,  pulsing  humanity 
about  the  little  squat  figtire  in  sympathy  with  the 
hidden  side  of  her  own  nature.  She,  too,  from  a 
different  cause,  had  felt  this  same  ache  of  loneli- 
ness, this  yearning  for  understanding  and  compan- 
ionship in  a  world  strangely  cold  and  secretly 
hostile. 

"I  hope  you  won't  feel  lonely  as  long  as  we  are 
here,"  she  said  kindly.  "We  live  in  El  Bouira, 
and  I'm  sure  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  both  at 
any  time." 

The  blue  eyes  widened  in  amaze. 

"You  mean  that?" 

"Certainly.  You  are  strangers  in  a  strange 
land.  We  speak  the  same  tongue.  That  alone 
should  suffice  to  make  us  friends^" 

"Friends!  I've  almost  forgot  the  meaning  of 
the  word."  His  tone  was  bitter  now.  "It  makes 
me  wish  at  times  I'd  never  coined  the  money.  I 
remember — hope  you're  not  getting  fed-up  ..." 

Saada  shook  her  d£irk  petite  head. 

"Well,  then.  Miss  Medene,  I  remember  when  I 
was  a  poor  chap,  working  at  Harris's  soap  works 
just  outside  Stratford  ...  I  had  heaps  o'  pals. 
OMyl  but  we  w^as  pore  then,  and  every  Saturday 
night  I  had  to  put  the  rent,  six  bob  I  remember  it 
come  to,  on  the  clock ;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I 
struck  this  idea  for  Snitch's  Patent  Oil  Cake. 
For  five  years  I  worked  on  it  in  my  spare  time,  but 
I  won  through,  and  soon  had  things  goin'  strong — 


156        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

in  more  ways  than  one.  Then  the  war  came.  The 
Government  applied  for  cattle-fodder.  I  wanted 
to  fight,  but  they  said  I  was  too  tight  about  the 
PlimsoU  mark  to  do  good.  So  I  put  in  my  price 
for  Snitch's  best — eighty  per  cent,  lower  than 
everybody  else's,  because  I  didn't  want  long  profits 
out  of  a  country  that  was  fighting  for  me  and  mine. 
But  my  word!  ...  in  a  month  you  couldn't  find 
me  for  orders.  They  just  swamped  in  from  all  the 
world  .  .  .  France,  Italy,  Japan,  America.  I 
netted  a  million,  after  giving  two  away:  I  might 
have  had  ten.  And  now  I've  got  my  reward. 
The  men  and  women  I  gave  my  brains  and  time  to, 
don't  know  me  or  mine.  It's  a  rum  world,  ain't 
it?" 

"Some  people  certainly  are  difflcult  to  under- 
stand," she  admitted. 

He  stared  at  the  glowing  end  of  the  cigar,  and 
turned  the  long  brown  weed  thoughtfully  between 
his  fingers. 

"Scarcely  any  one  knows  how  much  I  might  have 
made  from  the  Government,  if  I'd  had  the  mind: 
millions  more.  Some  chap  high  up  knew.  He 
offered  an  O.  B.  E. :  I  refused  it.  Then  they  came 
along  with  the  better-class  things,  with  a  ribljon 
and  a  K.  C.  in  front.  Could  I  see  myself  Sir 
Theodore  J.  Snitch,  K.  C.  B.  E.?  Not  a  bit  of  it, 
my  dear.  My  missis  could,  though;  so  could  my 
sons  and  three  other  daughters.  Living  in  Park 
Lane  they  are  today,  on  an  allowance  I  make  'em 
.  .  .  twenty  thousand  a  year.     Het,  she  stuck  to 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  157 

me,  and  here  we  are,  together,  as  merry  and  bright 
as  a  couple  o'  new  ha'pennies." 

"It  sounds  most  romantic — and  certainly  very 
creditable,"  Saada  agreed.  "I'm  ever  so  sorry  if 
people  aren't  nice  to  you." 

"Nice !"  he  echoed  scornfully.  "They  don't  want 
to  be  nice  to  folk  who  won't  dress  for  dinner  or  say 
'Bai  Jove!'  and  'How  wipping!'  I'm  a  blunt, 
plain  stick,  1  am :  an'  I  don't  sport  a  crest  or  swank 
about  my  hancestors — and  so  we  sit  in  carriages  all 
alone,  we  ride  our  camels  a  bit  way  distant  from 
the  rest  .  .  .  and  at  table  we're  stuck  in  corners, 
so  as  not  to  give  offence  .  .  .  jest  because  people 
won't  be  their  real  true  selves.  At  times  I  get  fed- 
up  and  tell  my  gel  she  ought  not  to  stick  to  the  old 
man.    What  do  you  think  about  it.  Miss  M'edene?" 

Saada's  manner  was  serious. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  think,  Mr.  Snitch. 
You  and  your  daughter  are  happy  together.  She 
wouldn't  want  to  leave  you  merely  to  win  social 
approval.  A  good  many  of  us  liave  to  face  and 
endure  what  the  world  thinks  and  says.  What 
does  it  matter  so  long  as  we  remain  true  to  our^ 
selves?" 

"My !  but  that's  well  thought  out  and  nicely  put ; 
my  sentiments  to  a  'T,'  except  when  I  get  a  fit  o' 
the  blues  .  .  .  same  as  tonight;  then  I  begin  to 
wonder  and  ask  myself  questions,  and  it  takes  a 
little  touch  of  real  humanity  to  set  me  right  agen.'* 

"You  will  remain  happy  while  tlxe  rest  pass  on," 
the  girl  continued.     "Here  there  is  so  much  that  is 


158        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

beautiful — the  sun,  the  warmth,  the  blue  sky  and 
the  wonderful  flowers.  They  help  to  make  life 
very  beautiful." 

"I  guess  you've  settled  in  these  parts,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  be  married  and  spend  a  good 
many  years  in  North  Africa." 

"Well,  that's  fine!  Now  shall  I  tell  you  what 
me  and  Het  are  doin'?" 

"I'd  like  to  know." 

"Perhaps,"  stroking  his  chin  reflectively,  "you 
could  help  me.  I'm  in  a  bit  of  a  quan-dary — that's 
the  right  word,  isn't  it?  Fm  settling,  for  a  year  or 
two  at  any  rate,  with  my  gel  in  Tunis." 

"I  was  born  in  Tunis,  Mr.  Snitcli.  My  father 
lives  there.     Where  is  your  house?" 

"I've  bought  a  place — mebbe  you  know  it,  the 
old  palace  of  Dar  Cheikh  Ben  Hassen  in  Sidi  Ben 
Said." 

"Yes,  I  have  often  seen  it — close  to  the  Palais  du 
Bey  at  La  Marsa." 

"You've  got  it  ...  a  wonderful  cream-coloured 
place  with  domes  and  spires  and  little  minarets, 
between  the  Phare  and  the  Archbishop's  palace. 
That's  to  be  our  home.  Miss  Medene,  when  we've 
finished  with  it  .  .  .  but  the  finishing's  the  job." 

"Oh !" — her  interest  deepening. 

"It  was  like  this,"  the  little  man  continued.  "I 
got  dead  beat  with  England.  I'm  too  low  down  in 
the  social  scale  for  there  to  be  much  room  for  me. 
I  left  them  as  like  the  'tuft-huntin' '  to  it.  Het 
and  me  come  out  here,  to  a  fresh  land.     And  when 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  159 

we  saw  Dar  Cheikh  Ben  Hassen,  well,  we  simply 
fell  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight  .  .  .  the  marble 
paved  courtyards,  the  columns  sneaked  from  Car- 
thage, the  fountains  what  oughter  be  filled  wi'  gold- 
fish and  ain't;  the  balconies  where  creepers  and 
trailing  roses  and  flowers  in  pots  should  stand 
.  .  .  only  the  pots  are  empty.  And  then  the  big 
airy  rooms  with  high  gilded  beds,  an'  carved  stone 
winders  .  .  .  my !  but  don't  you  think  that  mesrib- 
eyeh  work — is  bee-ooti-ful?" 

''I  can  imagine  the  Dar  Cheikh  Ben  Hassen  be- 
ing made  fit  for  a  king." 

"Now,  if  that's  not  my  very  idea!  Gee,  but 
it's  clever  of  you  to  think  of  it.  I  mean  to  make  it 
fit  for  a  king ;  not  king  Snitch,  tho'  he'll  live  in  it 
till  it's  finished,  but  the  King  of  England;  and  if 
His  Majesty  refuses  of  it  then  I'll  make  it  over 
...  a  gift  to  the  British  people  in  Tunisia." 

"I'm  certain  they  will  appreciate  your  generos- 
ity." 

The  little  man  shook  his  head. 

"It's  not  a  matter  o''  generosity  at  all.  Miss 
Medene.  It's  a  responsibility  which  should  fall 
on  a  rich  man.  Let  me  explain,  if  I  can.  When  I 
set  foot  in  this  wonderful  land  ten  months  ago 
what  did  I  see?  Art  treasures,  some  of  the  mos' 
wonderful  treasures  in  the  world,  thought  no  more 
of  than — that,"  snapping  his  fingers.  "Loot  from 
ancient  cities  like  Athens  and  Syracuse;  statues, 
carvings  and  arches  left  to  decay  in  Carthage, 
Douagga  and  Roman  cities  that  scarcely  any  one 


160.        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

knows  anything  about :  mosaics,  enamels,  coloured 
tiles,  pottery,  vases  and  furniture  hundreds 
of  years  old.  Says  I  to  myself,  'Theodore,  here's 
a  chanst  to  do  real  good  with  your  money.  Save 
those  relics  from  destruction  for  future  genera- 
tions; get  'em  together  in  a  fine  house,  give  'em 
to  the  King  or  the  British  nation,  and  when  you're 
gone  at  least  some  one  will  reap  the  benefit." 

"The  notion's  splendid.  I  suppose  you  came 
south  to  add  to  your  collection?"  said  Saada  en- 
thusiastically. 

"That's  it.  I've  bought  the  palace,  and  at  the 
moment  it's  being  cleaned  up,  ready  to  receive  the 
things.  But  now  comes  the  difficulty  I  spoke  of. 
I  kaven't  the  taste  or  the  knowledge  to  know  what 
is  real  and  what  is  fake.  Mind  you,  I  must  have 
the  best  ...  no  hole-and-corner  business  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

"There  are  dealers  and  experts  like  Ahmed 
Jhemal  in  the  Souk  el  Attarine  in  Tunis  who  would 
advise  you  honestly." 

"I  know,  but  Mr.  Jhemal  isn't  here — a  hundred 
miles  across  the  desert.  He's  got  his  own  business 
to  attend  to.  I  had  a  look  round,  a  month  ago, 
before  I  came  here,  right  down  west,  in  the  Arab 
country  beyond  Tunisia,  and  visited  the  half-buried 
Roman  city  which  they  now  call  Beni  El  Ourit,  be- 
yond the  oasis  of  Kheiroun.  It  belonged  to  an 
Arab  sheikh  named  Okba.  I  agreed  to  give  him  a 
quarter  of  a  million  francs  for  the  site,  just  as  it  is. 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  161 

My !  but  there's  heaps  of  stuff  there  in  the  way  of 
marble  and  carved  stone." 

"Your  difficulty  is  transport?" 

"No.  Honesty.  I  want  some  one  to  watch  my 
interests.  A  man  who  I  can  trust.  They're  not 
easy  to  find  nowadays.  I've  been  looking  round, 
and  what  I'm  afraid  of  is  ...  as  the  best  things 
are  brought  to  the  surface,  they'll  disappear." 

"It  would  be  a  thousand  pities." 

"And  then,"  the  millionaire  went  on,  "I  want 
some  one  who  can  travel  round  to  other  cities  in 
Tunisia  and  Algeria  and  buy  up  old  carpets,  rugs, 
and  hangings;  real  antique  Arab  furnishings,  like 
chests,  tables,  and  mirrors.  I  suppose  you  don't 
know  of  anybody?" 

In  the  back  of  Saada's  mind  a  strange  thought 
was  stirring.  Was  it  possible  such  a  wonderful 
opportunity  could  be  secured  for  John  Williams? 

"I  see ;  it's  got  you  guessing,"  Snitch  broke  in  on 
the  reflection. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  setting  down  her  cup,  "I 
do  know  some  one  ...  a  gentleman  by  birth  and 
education,  a  man  who  loves  and  admires  beautiful 
things.     I  believe  he  would  jump  at  the  chance." 

Snitch  looked  delighted. 

"Then  bring  him  along  here.  I  don't  mind  what 
I  pay  so  long  as  he's  honest  and  will  serve  me  well. 
Are  you  quite  sure " 

He  caught  the  troubled  expression  in  her  eyes. 
Her  voice  quivered  with  emotion  when  she  spoke. 


162        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"I  could  get  him  easily  enough,  but  I  think,  be- 
fore you  decide,  I  ought  to  tell  you  the  sort  of  man 
he  has  been.  I — I  would  trust  him  with  my  life, 
but  perhaps  when  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say  you 
might  not  care  to  employ  him," 

The  millionaire  regarded  Saada  curiously.  Her 
face  had  become  suffused  with  warm  colour;  her 
eyes  had  brightened,  her  whole  manner  was  more 
animated. 

"I  guess  you're  speaking  about  a  brother  o'  yours 
who's  gone  wrong,"  Snitch,  remarkably  quick  of 
perception,  suggested.  "Well,  if  that's  so,  I  reck- 
on the  fact  o'  your  trusting  him  is  good  enough 
for  me  .  .  .  and  no  man  shall  ever  say  T.  J.  S.  re- 
fused to  hold  out  a  helping  hand." 

Saada's  lips  set  purposefully. 

"Not  my  brother,  but  my  friend:  one  who  has 
sunk  to  the  lowest  depths  and  is  fighting  splendidly 
to  get  up  again." 

"By  Caractacus,  the  very  chap  for  me!"  cried 
the  little  man,  bringing  down  his  clenched  fist  with 
a  resounding  smack  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
"Give  me  a  fighter  .  .  .  any  size,  weight  or  colour 
.  .  .  and  I'm  willing  to  put  my  money  on  him. 
There's  only  one  point,  though:  would  he  under- 
stand those  oojilapper  things  such  as  bronzes,  stat- 
uary, and  the  like^  I  must  have  some  one  who 
knows/' 

Saada  nodded. 

"Of  course.  He  has  been  in  North  Africa  a 
good  many  years,  though  what  he  used  to  be  or  do  I 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  163 

can't  say.  He  goes  by  the  name  of  John  Williams. 
I  met  him  under  very  terrible  circumstances.  I 
was  in  danger,  in  the  native  quarter  of  Constan- 
tine ;  he  came  to  my  aid — at  the  risk  of  his  life  .  .  . 
and  saved  me.  Since  then,  of  course,  I've  taken  a 
very  great  interest  in  him." 

"Bet  your  sweet  life  you  have,"  agreed  Snitch. 
"Can't  do  too  much  for  a  chap  like  that.  But 
what's  his  trouble — drink  or  women?" 

Saada's  head  moved  sadly. 

"Worse  than  that.  He  used  to  drug  himself  into 
a  state  of  coma — some  stuff  which  the  lower-class 
natives  use  to  induce  pleasant  dreams;  I  believe 
a  kind  of  haschish.  I  found  him  in  a  terrible  state 
• — ^hopeless,  without  friends.  But" — her  voice  sud- 
denly softening  to  a  tone  of  abstraction — "that 
meeting  with  me  seemed  to  change  him,  to  give  him 
encouragement,  and — ■■ — " 

"Gee !  but  you're  the  type  of  woman  to  give  any 
man  hope.  I'll  lay  a  tenner  to  a  square  of  oil  cake 
he'd  do  anything  for  you." 

She  smiled. 

"I  believe  he  would.  He  promised  to  try.  It 
was  most  difficult  to  know  what  to  do.  I  felt  like 
giving  him  money:  he  w^as  so  poor,  with  only  the 
few  wretched  rags  he  stood  up  in.  His  home  was 
a  bare  attic  in  an  Arab  house.  He  seldom  ate  any- 
thing, although  he  was  so  big,  and  he  might  have 
been  such  a  fine  strong  man.  I  would  have  liked 
my  fiance  to  help  him  .  .  .  but  he  was  too  proud. 
He  went  away,  and  we  never  saw  him  again  in 


164        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Tunis.  But  one  evening,  a  few  months  ago,  in  the 
Square  at  Batna,  I  saw  him  .  .  .  working  as  a 
cameleer." 

"Gad!  but  that's  low  down  for  a  white  man! 
Excuse  me  ...  I  forgot  myself.  You  understand, 
don't  you?  I'm  a  bit  rough  at  times  .  .  .  and  it 
makes  me  wild  to  think  of  one  o'  my  own  country- 
men slaving  for  a  native  camel-owner." 

The  brightness  in  her  eyes  was  the  measure  of 
her  faith. 

"He  did  not  seem  to  mind  so  long  as  he  was 
standing  alone.  I  made  inquiries.  He  is  try- 
ing to  give  up  the  drug.  He  works  sixteen,  some- 
times eighteen  hours  a  day  for  a  mere  pittance. 
But  he  is  paying  his  simple  way,  and  I  understand 
he  is  very  proud  of  that." 

"As  well  he  might  be.  Good  luck  to  him." 
Snitch  rose  and  laid  a  strong  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"And  you  say,"  moving  to  the  side  of  the  terrace 
and  resting  his  elbows  on  the  balustrading,  "he's 
a  gentleman?" 

"Absolutely.  His  people,  I  believe,  belong  to  an 
old  county  family;  he  doesn't  want  them  to  know 
how  low  he  has  fallen." 

"So  that's  why  he  calls  himself  Williams?" 

"I  suppose  so.  He  has  never  spoken  to  any  one 
— except  me — about  his  earlier  life." 

"And  you  know  where  to  find  him?" 

"Yes.    I  have  his  address." 

"Perhaps  you'd  write  on  my  behalf?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment. 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  165 

"I  think  I  had  better  leave  that  to  you.  You 
may  mention  my  name,  if  you  like  ...  or 
when  you  leave  here  you  might  go  and  see  him  in 
Batna." 

"I'm  not  leaving  here."  The  little  man's  manner 
was  jocose.  "I've  found  a  comfy  perch.  This 
hotel  is  a  topper  .  .  .  my!  but  did  you  ever  eat 
such  a  dinner  as  they  gave  us  tonight?  Besides,  I 
can  make  El  Bouira  my  headquarters,  and  if  this 
fellow  Williams  pans  out  all  right,  he  can  operate 
from  here.  I  wish  you'd  just  write  down  h.is 
address." 

He  passed  over  notebook  and  pencil.  In  the 
dazzling  clearness,  with  a  moon  riding  grandly 
above  the  tall  eucalyptus  trees,  Saada  wrote  as 
easily  as  by  day.  Snitch  followed  the  gliding  mo- 
tion of  the  pencil. 

"My,  but  I  like  the  idea.  Miss  Medene !  A  chap 
who  can  pick  himself  out  of  the  mire  and  take  the 
ring  to  receive  ding-dong  blows  will  be  at  the  verti- 
cal when  the  count  out  comes.  You've  done  me  a 
turn  tonight  I'll  never  forget." 

"Oh,  but  ...  I  wanted  to  do  something — for 
him.  He  did  so  much  for  me.  I  do  hope  every- 
thing will  turn  out  all  right." 

"Trust  me  for  that,"  he  said,  reaching  for  his 
panama.  "I'll  send  a  car  down  to  Batna  to  bring 
Mr.  Williams  along.  I  guess  you'll  be  going  in 
now," 

"Thanks :  the  night  is  very  warm.  I  shall  wait 
until  my  fiance  returns." 


166       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SAi^DS 

**Well,  good-night."  He  put  out  his  rough  hand. 
'We'll  meet  again  in  the  morning." 

He  went  off,  whistling  gaily,  and  as  the  big  swing 
doors  closed  behind  him,  Saada  felt  strangely 
lonely.  The  night  was  very  still:  a  handful  of 
stars  peeped  out  and  cast  a  faint  glow  at  the  silver 
disc  of  the  moon  dropped  behind  the  trees.  In 
the  spacious  rooms,  now  almost  deserted  save  for 
a  few  men  gi'ouped  together  playing  cards,  the 
lights  still  burned.  But  over  all  was  the  deep  hush 
of  the  African  night. 

The  conversation  had  awakened  half-slumbering 
memories  of  Williams.  Deep  down  in  her  heart 
had  lingered  the  hope  that  one  day  they  should 
meet  again.  It  would  be  good,  she  felt,  to  rejoice 
with  him  over  the  success  of  his  splendid  effort 
,  .  .  to  see  his  face  glowing  with  hoj)e  instead  of 
lined  with  despair. 

She  looked  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist.  It  was 
very  late — past  midnight.  How  the  time  had 
flown :  more  than  three  hours  since  Lance  had  left 
her !  In  the  shadow  of  the  slender-stemmed  palms 
encircling  the  tiny  ornamental  lake  the  frogs  began 
to  croak,  faintly  at  first  but  soon  producing  a  babel 
of  sound.  Along  the  yellow  streak  of  the  road  be- 
low the  gardens  little  knots  of  Arabs  passed,  the 
hoods  of  their  ternouses  drawn  about  their  ears, 
their  robes  blown  against  their  thin  legs  by  gusts  of 
wind  driving  up  from  the  south.  One  played  a 
flute  as  he  walked  ...  a  timorous  wailing  mel- 
ody full  of  haunting  sadness. 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  167 

The  girl  shivered,  and  drawing  her  cloak  about 
her,  moved  down  the  steps  and  took  the  sanded 
path  between  the  high  walls  of  olive-green  foliage. 
Against  the  darkness  fireflies  crossed  and  recrossed 
in  lines  of  iridescent  flame;  the  breeze  was  heavy 
with  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

Saada's  mind  was  full  of  troublous  disquiet. 
Lance  had  been  long  gone :  the  manner  of  his  going 
was  something  unpleasantly  new.  A  month  ago 
he  would  scarcely  have  left  her  for  an  hour  .  .  . 
but  tonight  he  had  gone  off  seemingly  without 
regret.  Each  day,  of  late,  had  added  its  little 
quota  of  uneasiness.  More  than  once  the  friends 
he  had  made  had  covertly  shown  their  disapproval 
of  his  choice;  tonight  Featherstone's  manner  had 
been  almost  without  restraint.  What  would 
happen  later,  when  the  irrevocable  step  had  been 
taken,  and  she  was  his  wife?  She  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  reflect.  The  clock  in  the  vestibule  chimed 
the  half -hour;  she  turned  her  back  on  the  gardens 
and  slowly  mounted  the  stairs.  To  her  surprise  a 
light  burned  brightly  in  her  father's  room  .  .  . 
not  the  subdued  light  which  usually  marked  his 
sleeping  hours,  but  the  brilliance  of  a  reading  lamp 
streaming  from  the  partly  open  door.  She  knocked 
very  quietly,  and  to  her  astonishment  the  sheikh 
himself  raised  the  curtain. 

"Dearest,  you  should  have  been  asleep  hours 
ago,"  she  remonstrated.  "And  you  have  been 
writing,  too,"  glancing  at  the  pen  in  his  hand.  "Do 
you  know  what  the  time  is?    Nearly  one  o'clock." 


168        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"I  have  been  engaged  on  a  matter  of  importance." 
He  interposed  his  frail  body  between  her  and  the 
writing-table,  and  she  noticed  that  the  fingers 
which  swiftly  gathered  up  the  sheets  and  locked 
them  in  a  drawer  were  trembling.  "But  come  in 
and  stay  a  little  while  before  you  go  to  bed.  Child, 
you  look  tired  and  distressed." 

"No,  father.  I  feel  a  little  anxious  about  Lance, 
that  is  all.  He  went  down  to  the  town  about  nine 
o'clock  with  a  number  of  friends.  It  is  very  late, 
and  you  know  how  unsafe  some  of  the  roads  are  at 
such  an  hour," 

The  sheikh  swung  round,  eyeing  her  sympatheti- 
cally. 

"I  see ;  you  have  not  forgotten  your  own  unpleas- 
ant experience.  But  believe  me,  there  is  no  danger 
where  a  man  is  concerned.  Lance  is  quite  capable 
of  looking  after  himself  ...  I  am  rather  surprised 
he  should  have  left  you  alone.  Why  did  you  not  go 
with  him?" 

"It  is  a  man's  club.  He  has  gone  to  play  bil- 
liards." 

His  long  fingers  drummed  on  the  glass-topped 
table. 

"I  was  thinking  rather  of  the  principle.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  interfere,  but  I  do  not  approve  of  a  woman 
so  near  to  becoming  a  bride  being  left  alone.  These 
English  are  strange  men ;  have  you  noticed  a  cold- 
ness in  their  manner  towards  you?" 

Absolute  frankness  had  always  existed  from 
childhood  between   Saada  and  her  parent.     She 


THE  SACRED  CIRCLE  169 

answered  without  the  slightest  suggestion  of  bitter- 
ness, yet  not  without  a  touch  of  regret. 

"I  am  almost  beginning  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
my  decision.  I  love  Lance,  father,  very  dearly 
indeed,  but  all  along  I  have  feared  that  being  of 
different  race,  of  different  blood,  he  will  suffer  for 
marrying  me." 

Sheikh  Medene  drew  the  folds  of  his  loose  silk 
robe  about  him  and  leaned  back  in  the  long  chair, 
his  fingers  making  an  apex  above  his  knees. 

"You  have  noticed  the  coldness  and  suspicion 
with  which  the  rhoumis  regard  us?"  he  repeated. 

"One  cannot  help  noticing  it,  father.  In  the 
streets,  the  public  places,  we  are  objects  of  silent 
contempt.  For  myself  I  care  little:  I  think  only 
of  him." 

"You  mean  .  .  .  when  you  are  married  there 
may  be  a  drifting  apart?" 

"I  can't  see  anything  else,"  she  replied.  "I 
wouldn't  for  worlds  let  him  know  I  am  hurt  because 
his  friend's  invitation  was  deliberately  framed  to 
exclude  me.  I  told  him  to  go  and  enjoy  himself. 
He  does  not  think  he  left  me  with  an  aching  heart." 

"And  yet  you  love  him,  Saada?"  There  was  a 
note  of  interrogation  in  the  gentle  voice.  "You 
feel  you  can  find  happiness  with  him?" 

"While  I  was  in  England  I  owed  to  him  all  the 
happiness  I  ever  knew.  He  stood  between  me  and! 
the  scorn  of  his  own  people.  For  that  I  admired 
him :  in  time  my  admiration  changed  to  love  .  .  . 
at  least,"  her  words  coming  in  a  breathless  whisper, 


170       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"I  suppose  it  is  love  when  you  agree  to  surrender 
yourself  to  a  man." 

Medene  ran  his  fingers  thoughtfully  through  his 
thin  grey  beard. 

"I  have  always  looked  upon  Railsford  as  a  noble 
character,  Saada.  It  struck  me  very  much  when  I 
heard  of  your  engagement,  because  the  white  man 
who  binds  himself  to  a  woman  of  the  East  takes  a 
great  responsibility.  I  will  not  admit — I  have 
never  admitted — that  the  best  of  our  people  are  in- 
ferior to  the  European;  but  I  have  lived  long 
enough  to  understand  the  prejudice  of  the  white 
for  the  coloured  races.  I  had  hoped,  dear  child," 
his  voice  becoming  tender,  "that  Lance  cared 
enough  to  put  you  before  anything ;  instead,  I  fear 
he  will  allow  blood  prejudice  to  raise  a  barrier  be- 
tween you." 

Saada  turned  a  regretful  look  on  her  father's 
troubled  face. 

"That's  just  what  I  feel,  dear.  I  had  expected 
to  be  so  happy.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
I  wouldn't  do  for  Lance.  But  I  know  if  he  ever 
feels  ashamed  of  me  I  shall  be  miserable.  In  the 
European  quarter,  French,  English,  Maltese,  and 
Sicilians  step  aside  for  me  to  pass  .  .  .  when  we 
are  together;  but  in  their  hearts  they  despise  me. 
And  those  of  our  own  race  .  .  .  oh,  you  know 
what  it  is,  father!  They  look  with  scornful  eyes 
and  say  with  contempt,  'There  goes  one  of  our 
own  blood  who  would  defile  both  herself  and  us 
by  marriage  with  a  dog  of  an  Infidel.'     In  England 


THE  SACRED  CIECLE  171 

these  things  bothered  me  in  a  vague  indefinite 
sort  of  way;  out  here  they  are  a  living  force. 
Tonight  I  sat  alone  in  the  garden.  I  asked  my- 
self what  to  do  for  the  best  .  .  .  whether  to  give 
Lance  up  or  to  go  on  in  the  hope  of  making  him 
happy." 

"You  believe,  my  dear  one,  he  really  cares  for 
you?" 

"I  do!  I  do!"  clasping  her  small  hands  to- 
gether. "That  is  what  hurts  me  so — to  think  of 
giving  him  up  after  all  he  has  done  for  me.  No," 
with  a  hopeless  littl'e  quiver  trembling  her  lips, 
"I  must  go  on  and  trust  that  when  we  are  mar- 
ried all  will  be  well." 

Sheikh  Medene  rose,  and  moving  towards  her, 
rested  the  tips  of  his  fingers  lightly  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Believe  me,  all  will  go  well,  my  beloved,"  he 
said.  "For  long  I  have  fought  a  great  battle  in 
my  heart,  and  my  love  for  you,  greater  than  love 
of  myself,  has  won.  Tonight  I  would  reveal  a 
lifelong  secret  to  set  the  seal  of  happiness  upon 
your  future.  By  my  confession  I  sweep  all  diffi- 
culties away.  Saada,  the  truth  no  longer  shall 
be  hidden  from  thee:  thou  art  no  child  of  mine, 
but  flesh  and  blood  of  an  English  father  and  an 
En,glish  mother." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SECRET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS 

A  SENSE  of  unreality  seized  upon  Saada; 
everything  was  disproportionate;  her 
father's  voice  a  faint  echo  that  seemed  to 
come  from  a  very  long  way  off.  The  lights  were 
fading  to  an  all  engulfing  darkness ;  the  floor  began 
to  slip  beneath  her;  she  felt  herself  falling — 
falling  from  a  great  height  into  the  darkness  of 
oblivion. 

The  experience  was  transitory;  when  she  had 
passed  her  hands  across  her  eyes  the  room  and  the 
lights  came  back;  she  still  sat  in  the  same  chair, 
and  Sheikh  Medene  himself,  no  longer  unreal  and 
phantasmal,  was  bending  over  her,  his  lined  face 
full  of  solicitude. 

"Dear,  I  should  have  prepared  you,"  he  said, 
tenderly  caressing  her  dead  cold  hands.  "The 
shock  has  been  too  great.  And  yet — I  cannot  keep 
back  the  truth  any  longer.  It  is  Allah's  will  that  I 
lose  you  .  .  .  forfeit  for  ever  the  love  and  respect 
you  have  always  given  me.  Saada,  bfeloved,  no 
longer  my  child,  but  ruler  of  my  happiness  ...  I 
bow  myself  in  sorrow  at  your  feet  to  crave  for- 
giveness." 

"Dear,  there  is  nothing  to  forgive!"  she  an- 
172 


SECRET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS     173 

swered,  clinging  to  him  with  her  arms  about  his 
bowed  shoulders.     "I  have  always  belonged  to  you, 

0  my  father.  This  news  cannot  be  true.  There 
must  be  a  mistake.     I  do  not  wish  to  be  different. 

1  want  only  to  belong  to  you.  Tell  me,"  lifting  her 
lips  to  his  cheek,  "why  have  you  said  this?  To  lift 
me  up  in  the  eyes  of  my  lover;  to  make  me  happy? 
Indeed,  I  can  never  know  happiness  apart  from 
you,  my  dear  one.  You  have  been  both  my  father 
and  my  mother." 

"Yet  indeed  am  I  neither,"  he  answered,  avert- 
ing his  gaze.  "Behold  in  me  merely  Sheikh  Ibra- 
him Ben  Medene,  lord  of  Sidi  Ochfar,  no  more 
than  friend  to  your  father  and  mother,  whose  souls 
rest  in  Paradise.  See,"  glancing  at  the  clock  on 
the  writing-table,  "the  hour  grows  late,  and 
already  you  have  endured  much  suffering  of  mind 
and  body.  Sleep  now,  my  little  one,  and  in  peace. 
At  sunrise  we  will  meet  again — here  in  this  room 
— and  then  the  veil  of  mystery  shall  be  lifted,  and 
all  beyond  made  plain." 

Saada  shook  her  head. 

"I  could  not  sleep,  dear.  I  am  too  unsettled. 
You  must  tell  me  now.  Tomorrow,  perhaps — who 
knows — it  may  be  too  late." 

The  aged  Arab  moved  towards  the  table  and 
gathered  up  the  closely-written  sheets.  He  spoke 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  wall. 

"At  any  hour  now  the  will  of  Allah  may  be  done. 
I  feel  the  time  of  passing  very  near.  My  trem- 
bling feet  are  being  drawn  to  the  golden  gates,  be- 


174        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SA:NDS 

yond  which  stretches  the  Infinite  in  which  I  shall 
have  my  part.  May  the  Great  and  Wise  One  who 
controls  the  destinies  of  weak  and  evil  men  give  me 
courage  to  endure  this  my  heart's  affliction.  With 
my  eyes  towards  Mecca  and  with  a  sincere  heart 
I  offer  this  prayer  to  Allah  who  is  God,  the  one 
God." 

He  raised  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  touched  each 
ear  with  his  thumb,  and  keeping  his  palms  out- 
ward, he  said,  "Allah  is  great !"  After  which,  with 
his  right  hand  resting  on  the  left,  "Holiness  to 
thee,  O  Lord.  Praise  to  Thee.  Greatness  is  Thy 
Name." 

The  thin,  careworn  body  bent  forward;  with  his 
head  lowered  and  his  fingers  touching  his  knees, 
he  went  on,  "I  extol  the  sanctity  of  Allah." 

Saada  watched  in  awed  silence  the  conclusion  of 
the  prayer.  The  old  man  touched  the  floor  with 
his  brow,  and  she  heard  the  throbbing  whisper, 
"I  extol  the  greatness  of  the  Lord,  the  Most  High," 
and  the  last  triumphant  pronouncement  as  with 
the  finger  of  his  right  hand  raised,  he  cried,  "I 
aflfirm  by  the  grace  within  me,  there  is  no  God  but 
one  God,  that  Mahommet  is  his  Prophet." 

The  prayer  finished,  he  turned  and  handed  the 
girl  the  papers. 

"I  have  made  my  peace  with  the  Most  High. 
Now  must  I  make  my  peace  with  thee,  O  daughter 
of  goodness  and  great  charity.  Here  is  the  confes- 
sion which  shall  stand  for  ever  as  a  record  between 
me  and  thy  people." 


SECRET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS      175 

Tremblingly  Saada's  grip  closed  upon  the  docu- 
ment. From  weakness  the  old  man  was  shaking, 
so  she  heaped  a  pile  of  cushions  on  the  floor  and 
made  him  sit  down.  He  sat  cross-legged  at  her 
feet,  and  with  streaming  eyes  looked  up  into  her 
face. 

"Wilt  thou  love  me  when  thou  knowest  all?"  he 
asked  in  a  quavering  whisper. 

Her  soft  fingers  lovingly  touched  the  lines  of 
care  on  his  forehead. 

"Always  I  shall  love  thee,  my  father.  I  will  not 
read  the  words  thou  hast  written.  From  thy  lips 
the  truth  shall  come.  Neither  barriers  of  race  nor 
colour  can  ever  divide  us." 

The  assurance  calmed  him.  He  clasped  his 
hands  in  the  loose  folds  of  his  robe  and  said  in  a 
more  calm  voice, 

"This  is  the  story  of  Ibrahim  Ben  Medene,  told 
with  the  lips  of  penitence  to  Marcella,  child  of 
Charles  and  Esther  Denton,  of  Carrisfort,  Eng- 
land. It  was  at  the  end  of  the  great  feast  of  Rah- 
madan  five  and  twenty  years  ago  that  Allah,  of  his 
infinite  wisdom,  brought  into  my  lonely  life  your 
father  and  your  mother.  Your  father  was  a  great 
scholar  whose  heart  was  given  to  the  study  of  East- 
ern languages  and  traditions.  He  came  to  Tunis 
a  poor  gentleman,  to  seek  my  aid  in  translating  the 
original  of  the  Koran.  For  six  years  we  worked 
together  until  his  death.  The  work  was  not  quite 
finished.  I  completed  it,  and  sent  it  to  England. 
Payment  was  never  made.     Your  mother  did  not 


176        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

know.  She  was  without  means :  without  a  piastre 
in  the  world.  So  I  made  payment  to  her,  letting 
her  believe  the  money  came  from  England.  Six 
months  after  your  father's  death  you  were  born 
...  in  my  house.  For  long  your  mother  lay  ill 
...  so  ill  that  at  length,  on  the  advice  of  an  Arab 
physician,  I  had  you  both  taken  to  my  palace 
across  the  desert  in  the  region  of  El  Sid.  There 
it  seemed  as  though  she  would  recover  .  .  .  and 
for  two  years  we  lived  there  happily.  Oh,  hear  me, 
child,  and  if  it  is  in  the  goodness  of  your  heart — 
forgive.  Ibrahim  Medene,  the  lonely  Arab  sheikh, 
had  learned  to  love  the  poor  white  lady." 

"You  loved  my  mother?"  Saada  muttered. 

He  bowed  his  grey  head. 

"Indeed,  with  my  whole  heart.  But  she  never 
knew.  For  the  honour  of  him  who  was  dead  I 
kept  the  knowledge  sealed  in  my  bosom.  At  her 
passing  I  gave  all  my  love  and  devotion  to  you — 
flesh  of  her  flesh,  blood  of  her  blood  .  .  .  and  I 
brought  you  up  as  my  own  child." 

Saada  drew  a  long  deep  breath  of  amaae. 

"I  have  always  looked  upon  myself  as  an  Arab 
girl." 

The  sheikh  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  bosom. 

"Therein  lies  my  wrong  to  you.  So  great  was 
my  love,  I  could  not  let  you  go.  Your  parents  had 
both  told  me  that  all  their  people  in  England  were 
dead.  They  had  no  relatives.  Could  I  send  you 
back  to  your  native  land  without  friends,  without 
man  or  woman  to  lavish  love  and  care  upon  you? 


SECKET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS      177 

I  could  not  do  it.  And  yet  I  dared  not  keep  you 
without  the  consent  of  the  British  authorities.  So 
I  bound  all  the  servants  of  my  house  to  secrecy  and 
told  them  that  henceforth  the  world  was  to  regard 
you  as  my  own  child.  I  gave  you  the  name  of 
Saada,  which  means  Happiness,  because  since  your 
birth,  happiness  had  come  to  me." 

"And  yet  my  real  name  is  Marcella?" 

"Marcella  is  the  name  your  mother  would  have 
given  you,  had  there  been  a  Christian  imam  near  to 
give  you  baptism.  The  years  passed  .  .  .  such 
happy  years  .  .  .  until  you  were  ten.  The  thought 
came  to  me  one  day  to  take  you  back  to  Tunis,  and 
surrender  you  to  the  care  of  your  own  country- 
women. But  I  found  that  yonr  birth  was  forgot- 
ten .  .  .  your  father  and  mother  no  longer  in  re- 
membrance. I  yielded  once  more  to  the  tempta- 
tion to  keep  you  for  my  own  ...  to  bring  you  up 
to  womanhood  as  my  own  child.  Saada,  beloved, 
are  the  wells  of  compassion  still  deep  enough  to 
forgive  the:  one  who  has  wronged  you?" 

Her  hand  reached  out  and  touched  his  bowed 
head. 

"Indeed,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive,  my 
dear  father.     You  have  always  been  so  good  to  me." 

He  went  on,  after  a  little  silence, 

"In  a  little  while  it  became  necessary  to  broaden 
your  education.  Having  once  taken  the  step  in 
wrong,  there  was  no  going  back.  I  feared  the  con- 
sequences of  my  sin,  and  the  risk  of  losing  you 
.  .  .  the  greatest  treasure  left  in  my  solitary  life. 


178       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

I  sent  you  to  Paris  to  be  educated;  later  to  Eng- 
land, where  your  happy  girlhood  years  were  passed. 
There  is  little  more  to  tell ;  when  misfortune  came 
upon  me  and  my  means  failed,  you  did  a  noble 
thing  in  seeking  to  support  yourself.  I  lived  alone 
in  my  house  in  Tunis,  striving  to  amass  money  so 
that  when  the  hand  of  death  took  me  I  could  leave 
some  recompense  for  my  wrong." 

"I  do  not  want  money,  I  am  content  so  long  as 
I  have  you,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him  and  crying 
quietly. 

"Then  came  the  great  glad  news  of  your  return 
to  Africa.  I  meant  to  tell  you  then.  I  found  you 
quite  happy.  The  truth  would  never  have  been 
revealed — for  in  my  heart  I  was  a  great  coward. 
Then  I  began  to  understand  your  supposed  Arab 
parentage  had  begun  to  raise  a  barrier  between 
^ou  and  your  future  hus'band's  people.  I  have 
seen  the  clouds  gathering.  Tonight  I  prayed  to 
Allah  that  my  resolution  should  not  fail.  I  sat 
down  in  this  room,  alone,  to  write  the  story  of  your 
birth  and  upbringing.  By  the  hope  of  Paradise 
within  me,  all  this  is  the  truth." 

She  lowered  her  head  and  pressed  her  lips  upon 
his  brow.  Their  hands  met  and  for  a  time  no  word 
passed  between  them.  In  the  silence  he  read  the 
compassion  in  her  soul,  and  the  dawn  of  hope  be- 
gan to  break  upon  the  darkness. 

"So  at  your  hands  I  find  mercy?"  he  said  in  a 
quavering  whisper. 

She  held  the  frail  body  fast. 


SECEET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEAKS      179 

"More  than  mercy — love,  my  great  love  for  you. 
The  sun  has  shone  through  many  days  that  might 
have  been  dark  for  me:  tomorrow  it  will  shine 
again  for  you." 

She  knew  that  the  picturesque  Eastern  imagery 
would  please  him.  A  smile  irradiated  the  worn 
features. 

"May  the  past  never  press  heavily  upon  the  pres- 
ent or  the  future/'  he  said.  "We  will  look  to- 
gether to  the  break  of  a  brighter,  better  day.  The 
truth  will  help  disperse  the  clouds  that  have  gath- 
ered, and  will  give  joy  to  the  man  who  will  wed 
you." 

"Yes,  I  am  certain  Lance  will  be  pleased,"  she 
agreed.  "Not  that  it  will  make  much  difference,  in 
one  way,  to  him.  I  believe  he  loves  me  for  myself 
alone.  His  mother,  however,  does  not  think  or  feel 
the  same.  We  get  on  very  well  together,  but  she 
has  never  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  I  was  Arab 
born." 

"And  now  you  will  be  able  to  tell  her  .  .  .  that 
you,  even  as  she  is,  are  of  pure  English  blood,"  the 
sheikh  said  with  childish  simplicity. 

"Yes,  of  English  blood,"  she  repeated  thought- 
fully. "You  say  my  father's  name  was  Denton 
and  that  he  came  from  a  place  called  Carrisfort?" 

"Charles  Denton,  of  Carrisfort,  in  Devonshire. 
It  is,  I  believe,  only  a  small  place — what  you  call  a 
village.  Once,  there  were  many  Dentons  there, 
and  they  lived  in  a  large  house.  But  with  the  pass- 
ing of  time   the   family  fortunes  decayed;  your 


180       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

grandfather  was  the  imam — clergyman  you  call 
him — of  that  place,  and  this  Charles  was  his  only 
son.  He  went  as  a  boy  to  a  famous  school,  and 
later  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  to  Christ's  Col- 
lege, I  believe.  As  a  young  man  he  drifted  East — 
to  Cairo — to  study  languages  there,  and  met  your 
mother.  She,  I  believe,  was  the  daughter  of  an 
English  oflQcer  killed  in  the  Egyptian  war.  Often 
I  have  heard  them  say  that  they  two  were  alone  in 
the  world.  When  they  had  gone  there  was  no  one 
but  me  to  care  for  you." 

"I  shall  never  forget,"  she  said,  regarding  him 
fondly.  "You  have  given  me  all  I  could  desire :  the 
shelter  of  your  home,  education,  your  love.  Oh,  I 
cannot  pretend  I  am  not  happy  at  the  news! 
Always  I  have  loved  England  and  the  English 
people.  Now  I  know  that  I  am  one  of  them  I  am 
glad  because  of  the  joy  it  will  bring  to  Lance." 

The  sheikh  raised  his  head. 

"It  is  very  late  .  .  .  the  clock  shows  the  hour  of 
two." 

"I  fancy  I  hear  him  coming.  Yes,"  as  the  gravel 
crunched  under  the  window,  "that  is  Lance's  step. 
I  am  glad  he  is  safely  home." 

The  sheikh  rose  and  pointed  to  the  papers. 

"You  will  lock  them  away  and  keep  them  in  safe 
keeping.  Later,  I  have  a  few  other  things  to  give 
you  .  .  .  your  mother's  rings  and  a  seal  that  was 
your  father's.  I  hear  the  closing  of  the  door.  You 
will  go  to  Lance  and  break  the  good  news  to 
him?" 


SECRET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS      181 

She  pursed  her  lips  suddenly  and  shook  her  head 
in  firm  decision. 

"No,  I  shall  not  tell  him,  father,  until  we  are 
man  and  wife.  He  will  marry  me  for  myself  alone. 
This  shall  be  my  wedding  surprise  for  my  hus- 
band. Not  a  living  soul,  save  you  and  I — not  even 
dear  old  Yakoub — shall  share  it  until  I  am  mar- 
ried. Don't  you  see  how  much  happier  I  shall 
always  be  .  .  .  knowing  that  Lance  made  me  his 
wife  because  he  loved  me — in  spite  of  race,  colour, 
or  the  opinions  of  his  friends?  And  if  ever  I  am 
tempted  to  feel  bitter  against  those  who  turned 
their  backs  on  me  ...  I  shall  always  have  the 
thought  to  treasure  .  .  .  that  my  husband  stood  by 
me  through  everything." 

A  slow,  perplexed  smile  lit  the  old  man's  face. 

"It  is  difflcult  to  understanti  the  heart  of  a 
woman,"  he  said,  patting  her  shoulder  affection- 
ately. "I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  realize  that 
you  bear  me  no  ill  will  for  keeping  the  secret  so 
long.  I  feared  so  much,  child,  to  lose  you.  But 
now  I  know " 

"You  will  never  lose!  me.  You  are  still  my 
father — I  shall  so  think  of  you  always.  The  love 
you  have  Shown  me  will  never  be  forgotten.  I — I 
am  very  happy." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  soft 
brown  arms  resting  on  his  shoulders,  her  fingers 
interlocked  behind  his  bowed  head.  Upstairs  a 
door  closed  quietly.  Railsford  had  retired,  little 
dreaming  of  the  scene  being  enacted  below. 


182       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Saada  felt  far  too  excited  to  sleep.  She 
wanted  to  run  away— to  a  spot  where  she  could  be 
quite  alone — to  muse  over  this  strange  turn  of 
fortune's  wheel.  To  rejoice  in  the  new-found 
knowledge  was  no  disrespect  to  the  aged  man 
whom  she  had  always  looked  upon  as  her 
father;  she  knew  now  why,  through  the  long  years 
passed  under  northern  ^kies,  all  her  instincts  and 
feelings  had  been  so  purely  English.  The  blood 
that  ran  in  her  veins  was  stronger  even  than  the 
influence  of  an  early  Eastern  upbringing. 

"You  must  sleep,"  she  said,  kissing  the  sheikh's 
forehead.  "I  will  take  great  care  of  the  papers; 
do  not  be  afraid  I  shall  lose  them." 

"There  are  others,"  he  told  her,  walking  at  her 
side,  his  flat  heelless  shoes  making  no  sound  in  the 
thick  pile  of  the  carpet.  "Your  parents'  mar- 
riage certificate,  the  few  pieces  of  jewellery  and  a 
packet  of  letters.     Good-night,  my  dear  one." 

"Good-night,  my  father,"  she  answered. 

The  door  closed  behind  the  frail  old  man;  she 
passed  out  into  the  deserted  vestibule  and  stole  like 
a  shadow  into  the  dark  of  the  sleeping  gardens. 
Among  the  bushes  a  few  cicadas  shrilled  and  fire- 
flies made  fancy  play  of  flame  and  colour  against 
the  sapphire  curtain  of  night.  The  light  in  Lance's 
bedroom  snapped  out,  and  was  followed  a  few  min- 
utes later  by  the  sheikh's.  She  felt  no  sense  of 
isolation;  rather  a  tense  exhilaration  filled  her  at 
the  thought  of  the  secret  which  the  last  few  hours 
had   given   into   her   keeping.     Looking  into   the 


SECRET  OF  LONG-DEAD  YEARS     183 

future — but  a  little  while  since  clouded  by  de- 
pressing uncertainties — she  saw  only  care-free 
years  .  .  .  the  great  barrier  of  blood  at  last  broken 
down.  For  Lance's  sake  she  felt  more  pleased 
than  for  her  own;  the  sweeping  away  of  difficul- 
ties that  might  have  proved  a  real  burden  to  him 
no  longer  existed. 

She  walked  rapidly,  her  step  as  light  as  her 
heart.  Life  had  suddenly  become  a  song — of 
thankfulness  and  hope.  She  could  look  to  the 
future  now  with  unshadowed  eyes;  the  gloom  had 
passed  and  before  her  lay  the  dawn  of  love  and 
happiness. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    CABLEGRAM 

ON  the  following  Thursday  morning  the 
wedding  took  place  in  the  little  Protes- 
tant church  behind  the  native  quarter. 
There  was  very  little  fuss  or  ceremony,  save  for 
the  special  decoration  of  the  somewhat  plain  in- 
terior with  a  wealth  of  blooms  provided  by  the 
sheikh.  Only  a  few  friends  were  present.  The 
English  clergyman,  who  served  a  large  district 
lying  between  the  frontiers  of  the  two  countries, 
travelled  up  by  car  from  Abd-el-Hamada  to  per- 
form the  ceremony,  after  which  Saada  and  her  hus- 
band drove  back  to  the  hotel. 

Outwardly  she  was  very  calm,  her  beautiful  face 
wreathed  with  happy  smiles,  but  in  her  heart  was 
the  excited  longing  to  break  the  wonderful  secret. 

On  the  verandah  Monsieur  Gourron,  the  pro- 
prietor, greeted  them  with  a  well-prepared 
little  speech  in  which  on  behalf  of  himself  and 
his  entire  staff  he  wished  them  a  long  and  happy 
married  life.  Then  he  presented  an  immense 
bouquet,  after  which  he  asked  the  acceptance  of 
a  gift  especially  sent  down  by  the  works'  inspec- 
tor of  the  company. 

Amid  a  general  chorus  of  congratulations,  led 

184 


THE  CABLEGRAM  185 

by  Mr.  Snitch  and  Ms  daughter,  they  went  to  the 
private  room,  where  a  luncheon  had  been  prepared, 
and  Yakoub  entered  carrying  a  tray  heaped  with 
telegrams. 

Lance  took  them  and  moved  towards  Saada,  sur- 
rounded by  her  guests. 

"We  will  share  them  between  us,  dear,"  he  said 
lightly,  as  he  handed  a  batch  to  her.  "My  first  is 
from  General  Bailey,  who  wires  from  Sfax.  Here, 
this  should  have  been  opened  by  you — from  your 
friend  John  Williams" — smiling  good-naturedly. 
"Goodness  knows  how  the  news  could  have  reached 
Batna  .  .  .  anyway,  what  he  says  is  very  nice  and 
very  appropriate." 

Saada  blushed  as  she  read  the  message. 

"With  all  my  heart  I  wish  you  and  your  husband 
every  joy  and  blessing. — John  Williams." 

She  turned  and  handed  the  slip  to  Theodore 
Snitch,  who  was  chatting  gaily  to  the  sheikh. 

"He  can't  have  received  your  letter,  or  he  would 
certainly  have  come,"  she  said  lightly.  "I'm  rather 
anxious  to  know  whether  he  will  secure  the 
appointment." 

The  millionaire  laughed. 

"My  dear  lady,  you  need  have  no  fears.  After 
all  you  have  told  me,  backed  by  your  husband's 
recommendation,  John  Williams  is  my  man.  Don't 
you  think,  Mr.  Railsford,''  moving  over  to  where 
Lance  stood  exchanging  laughing  pleasantries  with 


186        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Yakoub,  "it's  up  to  us  to  do  all  we  can  for  a  fellow 
who's  trying  to  stand  on  his  own  feet?" 

The  conversation  drifted  to  a  confused  hum  in 
Saada's  ears.  The  interest  for  a  moment  had 
shifted  to  Theodore  Snitch  and  her  husband. 
iEven  the  sheikh  was  taking  part  in  it.  Her  eyes 
were  riveted  on  the  last  telegram  she  had  opened. 
Unlike  Lance,  who,  as  each  came  up  for  scrutiny, 
tore  the  covering  hastily,  she  had  merely  lifted 
the  lightly-gummed  flap  and  withdrawn  the  slip 
of  flimsy  white  paper.  The  cablegram  was  in- 
tended for  her  husband ;  the  fact  was  indicated  in 
every  word  of  the  message :  still  she  read  it  to  the 
end. 

"PostpK)ne  wedding  at  any  cost.  Your  uncle's  entire 
fortune  left  to  you.  Say  nothing  to  anybody  but  re- 
turn to  England  alone  immediately. — Mother." 

Saada  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the  irony  of 
fate,  which  by  the  space  of  one  short  hour  had 
robbed  Helen  Railsford  of  the  power  to  change  her 
future.  She  herself  had  never  been  insensible  to 
the  silent  antagonism  of  this  proud,  hard  woman. 
Here  the  same  spirit  was  expressed  in  terms  quite 
unmistakable  .  .  .  the  putting  off  of  the  marriage, 
the  good  fortune  to  be  guarded  as  a  precious  secret, 
the  return  home  of  her  son,  without  the  woman  to 
whom  he  had  pledged  his  life  and  honour. 

The  hideousness  of  the  suggestion  angered 
rather  than  hurt  her.  And  yet  she  could  feel  little 
but  contempt  for  this  wretched  creature  whose 


THE  CABLEGRAM  18T 

venom  had  been  spent  in  vain.  Powerless  now  was 
she,  or  any  one,  to  alter  the  irrevocable;  nothing 
could  change  the  fact  of  her  marriage. 

Mechanically  she  folded  the  sheet  and  put  it  back 
in  the  thin  blue  envelope.  Under  the  warmth  of 
her  fingers  the  gum  set  fast.  Conscious  that  some 
one  was  speaking  to  her,  yet  blind  to  the  meaning 
of  the  words,  she  turned  away  and  picked  up  a 
wedding  gift  which  had  just  been  presented.  The 
little  throng  drifted  her  way  again;  through  the 
press  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  husband's  smiling 
face.  He  bent  towards  her  and  took  the  little 
sheaf  of  unopened  telegrams  from  her  nerveless 
clasp. 

"I'll  help  read  yours,"  he  said.  "There's  such 
a  funny  one  from  the  two  American  people  we 
met  in  Tunis." 

Saada  looked  up,  her  brain  trying  to  frame  an 
excuse  to  keep  him  from  reading  the  telegrams. 
The  effort  failed. 

"Which  Americans?"  she  said  almost  stupidly. 
"Did  we  ever  meet  any  in  Tunis?" 

Railsford  laughed  boisterously. 

"Of  course  you  remember  .  .  .  the  pretty  little 
dark  woman  who  astounded  us  by  introducing 
Hamon  K.  Spargo  as  her  fourth  husband  .  .  .  the 
other  three  having  been  divorced  by  her  in  differ- 
ent States  for  trivial  incompatibilities  of  temper. 
Don't  you  recollect  saying  you  hoped  she  wouldn't 
get  rid  of  Spargo  on  the  ground  of  too  easy  com^ 
pliance  with  her  wishes?     Now  I  wonder  who  this 


188        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

one  is  from."  A  moment's  tense  pause,  then, 
"Saada  .  .  .  I've  got  .  .  .  bad  news  from  home." 

The  glance  she  directed  at  him  as  he  reread  his 
mother's  message  was  curiously  calm.  Yet  behind 
it  lurked  a  dread  more  poignant  than  she  had  ever 
known. 

"What  is  wrong,  Lance?"  she  asked  quietly. 

A  hush  had  fallen  on  the  company.  Railsford 
winced  under  the  directness  of  his  young  wife's 
look,  and  with  slow  deliberation  placed  the  folded 
cablegram  in  his  pocket. 

"A  message  has  come  through  from  some  one  at 
Redlands  to  say  mother  is  dangerously  ill.  I'm 
afraid  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  at  once." 

Saada  ,stood  motionless,  impassive,  under  the 
shock  of  her  husband's  falsehood,  her  face  as  waxen 
as  the  flowers  with  which  she  was  surrounded.  She 
felt  cold.  She  tried  to  speak.  Her  head  drooped 
and  for  a  moment  she  gave  no  sign  that  she  fully 
understood. 

The  wave  of  weakness  passed :  questions  and 
commiseration  poured  in  on  Railsford  from  every 
side;  he  met  them  with  a  smile  of  assumed  grati- 
tude, and,  moving  to  his  wife,  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"I'm  ever  so  sorry,  little  sweetheart,"  he 
whispered.  "I  would  have  given  worlds  to  save 
you  this  on  our  wedding-day.  But  you  realize, 
don't  you?  ...  I  must  go." 

She  could  not  trust  herself  to  look  at  him  yet. 
Her  voice  came  in  a  lifeless  whisper, 

"Of  course  if  your  mother  is  dangerously  ill  .  .  . 


THE  CABLEGRAM  189 

your  place  is  with  her.  A  son's  first  duty  is  to  hia 
mother." 

"You  feel  that,  don't  you?"  he  said  self-ex- 
cusingly.  "It  is  terrible  to  have  to  leave  you  .  .  . 
on  our  wedding-day,  too — but  I  feel  I  ought  to  go." 

"Yes,  you  ought  to  go,"  she  admitted  mechani- 
cally.    "I  quite  understand." 

Sheikh  Medene  turned  from  one  to  the  other  in 
amazement. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  you  will  be  returning  to  Eng- 
land— without  Saada?" 

Lance  drew  him  aside. 

"I  don't  see  what  else  can  be  done.  It  is  a  long 
and  expensive  journey;  and,  as  you  know,  my 
means  are  small.  Besides,  why  harrow  her  with 
what  must,  after  all,  be  only  a  very  distressing 
affair?  She  is  best  out  of  it  ...  to  stay  here 
alone  with  you  until  I  return.  Of  course,  I  shall 
hope  for  the  best,  and  I  shall  get  back  with  all  possi- 
ble speed.  Yakoub" — the  servant  bustled  forward 
— "will  you  inquire  of  the  company's  agent  how 
soon  a  car  can  be  here  to  take  me  to  Biskra?  By 
driving  through  the  night  I  may  be  able  to  catch 
tomorrow's  train.  Saada,  I  hope  you're  not  very 
upset?" 

Her  voice  was  slightly  hysterical. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Lance.  It  has 
happened  ...  so  suddenly.  I  had  no  idea  your 
mother  was  ill." 

"Nor  had  I,"  he  admitted.  "In  her  last  letter 
to  me  she  spoke  of  being  quite  well,  and  of  returning 


190        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

to  El  Bouira  as  soon  as  my  uncle  was  convalescent. 
I  suppose,  though,  the  strain  of  nursing  liim  has 
proved  too  much.     She  was  never  over-strong." 

Saada  knew  that  all  the  time  he  was  fighting 
out  in  the  depths  of  his  warped  nature  the  conflict 
between  his  shallow  passion  for  her  and  the  cupid- 
ity which  his  mother's  news  had  aroused.  And, 
all  along  the  line,  his  ignoble  self  was  winning. 
Just  as  clearly  might  those  lips  which  had  so  cruelly 
tried  to  deceive  her  be  saying,  "I  am  sorry  now 
that  I  married  you.  You  are  alien  to  me,  by  blood 
and  race.  I  have  been  suddenly  given  great  riches. 
I  go  back  to  a  position  of  wealth  and  honour.  My 
people  would  scorn  me  were  I  to  return  with  an 
Arab  bride.  It  is  best  you  should  never  know  the 
true  reason  for  my  going." 

And  then  from  sheer  weariness  she  tried  to  be- 
lieve she  was  deceiving  herself  and  wronging  him 
too.  In  a  little  while,  when  the  first  wave  of  self- 
ishness had  passed,  he  would  think  of  her,  and  his 
love  would  return.  Now  he  was  being  carried 
away  by  the  force  of  his  mother's  influence ;  in  time 
the  full  realization  of  his  cruelty  would  bring 
remorse. 

"You  must  go,"  she  said  in  a  voiceless  whisper. 
"Lose  no  time.    Yakoub  will  help  you  pack." 

"And  you?" 

"I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  answered.  "I  have 
still — my  father." 

She  had  not  forgotten  the  secret  which  her  heart 
held.    It  lay  behind  her,  a  useless,  dead  thing.     Of 


THE  CABLEGRAM  191 

course  shd  could  tell  him,  and  that  might  alter 
everything.  In  that  moment  of  wild,  unreasoning 
conflict  her  pride  won  and  sealed  her  lips  to  silence. 
The  man  who  had"  cast  her  away  should  never  know 
the  full  extent  of  his  wrongdoing. 

One  by  one  the  few  guests,  after  a  word  or  two  of 
sympathy,  had  slipped  away.  Many  of  the  things 
Lance  required  for  the  journey  were  at  the  villa. 
To  get  off  before  the  horror  of  his  deception  could 
cause  his  resolution  to  waver  was  the  one  thought 
that  obsessed  him. 

As  the  big  car  drove  up  the  sanded  drive  he 
bustled  into  the  room  where  Saada  was  with  her 
father.  He  looked  pale  and  worried  as  he  set  down 
the  two  hand  cases. 

*'Try  to  bear  up  bravely,  my  wife,"  he  said.  "I 
know  the  blow  is  terrible.  But  in  a  little  while 
everything  will  come  right.  I  shall  write  to  you 
from  Tunis,  and  again  from  Marseille;  and  from 
England  I  will  send  a  full  account  of  everything. 
Good-bye,  sheikh  .  .  .  and  good-bye,  Saada." 

He  took  her  cold,  inanimate  form  in  his  arms; 
there  was  no  warmth  or  compassion  in  the  touch  of 
his  lips;  with  eyes  closed,  she  swayed  unsteadily 
when  he  released  her  .  .  .  her  glance  followed  him 
to  the  door,  and  as  he  passed  from  her  sight,  the 
light  of  day  snapped  out  and  she  drifted  away  on 
the  untroubled  waters  of  oblivion. 

Was  it  the  blinding  whiteness  of  the  rough  sandy 
road  that  prompted  Lance  to  close  in  the  car  long 
before  the  streets  of  El  Bouira  were  left  behind? 


192        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

He  leaned  back,  breathless  from  the  tense  nerve- 
strain  of  the  last  half-hour,  and  shut  his  eyes  to 
keep  out  the  vision  of  Saada's  face  as  he  had  last 
looked  upon  it  .  .  .  the  face  of  a  woman  horror- 
stricken. 

He  writhed  in  a  torment  of  heart-searching  un- 
easiness; the  stifling  heat  brought  tiny  rivulets  of 
moisture  from  his  forehead  to  the  corners  of  his 
lips.  Under  the  first  tempestuous  rush  of  temp- 
tation it  had  been  easy  to  tell  the  lie  which  his 
mother's  news  had  prompted;  but  now,  with  wave 
upon  wave  of  compunction  and  remorse  beating  in 
and  dashing  to  pieces  the  foundations  on  which  the 
falsehood  had  been  built,  he  began  to  feel  incapable 
of  sustaining  the  role  he  had  adopted.  Terror 
seized  him :  the  horror  of  an  act  so  cruel  that  his 
soul  revolted  against  the  consequences.  In  a  night- 
mare of  gloom  he  reached  the  villa  which  was  to 
have  been  his  home. 

The  rooms  echoed  dully  to  his  tread ;  the  labour 
of  loving  hands  mocked  him  for  his  perfidy.  He 
passed,  a  pitiful  object,  into  the  sleeping  apart- 
ment prepared  for  his  and  Saada's  homecoming. 
Through  the  open  window  the  desert  wind  blew 
softly,  but  fevered  rather  than  cooled  the  burning 
in  his  veins.  The  cloying  perfume  of  the  flowers 
sickened  him;  the  gentle  tapping  of  the  star-like 
clusters  of  purple  bougainvillea  against  the  jalousie 
blinds  set  his  nerves  jangling.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  moral  cowardice  as  deep  as  his  obliquity.     He 


THE  CABLEGRAM  193 

possessed  neither  the  courage  to  turn  back  to  plead 
forgiveness  nor  to  go  on  in  his  self-chosen  path. 
Three  times  he  packed  and  unpacked  the  large  suit- 
case, littering  the  things  which  Saada's  hands  had 
so  carefully  arranged,  in  a  disordered  mess  around 
him.  In  despair  he  took  the  cablegram  from  his 
pocket  and  read  it  again.  Behind  every  word 
lurked  the  clearness  of  his  mother's*  purpose.  She 
might  have  said,  "You  are  now  an  immensely  rich 
man  with  a  high  position  to  maintain.  To  have  as 
your  wife  a  woman  of  colour  must  be  fatal  bar  to 
the  position  you  will  take  up.  Make  any  excuse 
to  get  away  from  her — to  free  yourself.  Come 
back  to  England  untrammelled,  and  keep  your 
good  fortune,  for  the  present,  a  secret."  He  had 
understood  all  she  meant  to  convey,  and  in  under- 
standing had  acquired  resolution.  For  a  time  the 
lure  of  money  had  hypnotized  him,  but  now  the 
effect  was  wearing  off.  He  looked  about  him  in 
helpless  indecision,  one  moment  torn  with  restless 
longing  to  repair  the  evil  and  to  seek  again  his 
happiness  with  Saada ;  the  next,  spurred  on  to  keep 
his  fatal  course,  by  sheer  dread  of  the  consequences, 
of  his  action. 

To  go  back  must  be  to  confess  his  wrong.  He 
could  not  do  that. 

To  keep  on  .  .  .  perhaps  time  would  show  a 
middle  course  in  which  Saada  could  take  her  part. 
Thank  God  she  knew  nothing  of  what  had  prompted 
I)im  to  this! 


194        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

A  heavy  step  in  the  hall  below  caused  him  to 
start  guiltily.  He  heard  the  chauffeur's  voice  call- 
ing from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"If  monsieur  would  catcb  the  train  he  must 
hurry." 

"Coming,  Frangois,  coming!"  he  answered,  and 
marvelled  at  the  weakness  of  his  voice.  He  made 
an  effort  to  control  himself,  and  tossed  the  clothes 
into  the  case  again.  He  skirted  the  bed  and 
Saada's  dressing-table  on  which  were  displayed  the 
set  of  gold-mounted  tortoiseshell  brushes  which  had 
formed  his  wedding-present,  and  groped  a  blind 
way  to  the  door.  He  half  wished  that  she  would 
come,  and  by  a  look,  a  word,  or  gesture  of  reproach 
break  his  resolution.  At  the  open  door  to  the  cosy 
smoke-room,  on  the  table  of  which  lay  the  gold  and 
silver  damascened  dagger  bought  in  the  native 
quarter  of  Constantine,  he  sharply  averted  hia 
gaze,  and  handing  the  luggage  to  Francois  moved 
to  the  car. 

"We  can  have  the  covering  down  now,"  he  mut- 
tered, his  glance  passing  over  the  lonely  waste  of 
sand  gleaming  like  burnished  gold  under  the  eye 
of  the  sun.  "There  is  more  wind  than  in  the 
streets.  Drive  as  fast  as  you  can  to  make  up 
time." 

The  cigar  which  he  had  lighted  seemed  to  soothe 
his  nerves;  he  settled  himself  comfortably  and 
tried  to  review  the  situation  with  sober  reasoning. 
Of  course  Saada  would  feel  the  shock  of  his  going. 

Time,  however,  would  soften  the  blow,  and  long 


THE  CABLEGRAM  195 

before  he  reached  England  she  would  have  become 
accustomed  to  the  changed  conditions.  Not  that 
he  meant  to  leave  her  always ;  in  spite  of  his  moth- 
er's wishes,  Saada  was  still  his  wife,  and  must  find 
some  place  in  his  life.  Perhaps,  being  now  a  rich 
man,  he  could  so  arrange  matters  that  it  would  be 
possible  to  spend  part  of  the  year  on  his  estate 
— the  message  clearly  indicated  that  the  property 
had  been  left  absolutely  to  him — and  the  rest  of  the 
time  in  North  Africa.  One  point,  however, 
emerged  quite  clearly — it  would  be  suicidal  to 
think  of  bringing  her  back  to  England.  The  treat- 
ment already  experienced  in  El  Bouira  had  shown 
him  the  folly  of  such  a  course. 

There  was  his  work,  ruthlessly  abandoned  in  the 
moment  of  good  fortune.  Strange  he  hadn't 
thought  of  that — to  go  to  the  office  and  settle  up 
his  affairs.  Yet  not  strange,  considering  the  small- 
ness  of  the  position.  He  smiled  derisively.  If 
Uncle  Hugh  had  cut  up  for  anything  like  the 
amount  he  was  reputed  to  possess,  the  income 
could  not  possibly  fall  far  short  of  thirty  thou- 
sand. 

The  desert,  as  it  spun  past,  became  a  sea  of  gold, 
the  rivulets  breaking  free  of  the  cool  oases,  rivers  of 
crystal  that  trailed  away  until  the  blue  distance 
swallowed  them  up.  In  an  hour  the  unexpected  had 
happened,  and  he  was  rich  for  life.  Admitted,  he 
had  made  one  false  step  by  marrying  Saada;  but 
even  that  was  a  step  not  altogether  regretted. 
There  was  a  deal  of  love  for  her  still  in  his  heart ; 


196        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

he  believed  it  possible  to  find  more  than  a  meed  of 
happiness  with  her  when  time  should  have  given 
him  the  chance  to  make  more  settled  arrangements. 

He  was  glad  now  he  had  not  shown  her  the  tele- 
gram. Naturally,  as  his  wife,  she  would  have 
felt  her  place  was  at  his  side.  But  it  is  one  thing 
for  a  poor  man  to  live  in  comparative  obscurity 
with  a  woman  of  Eastern  blood ;  quite  another  for 
a  man  of  great  wealth  and  important  social  posi- 
tion. In  that  respect  his  mother  was  right,  though 
secretly  he  could  not  approve  of  the  method  em- 
ployed to  put  her  principle  into  practice.  Had  he 
been  left  to  his  own  devices  he  would  have  made 
an  effort  to  compromise  with  Saada,  have  pointed 
out  the  difficulties  in  which  his  new  responsibili- 
ties placed  him,  and  have  suggested  some  reason- 
able halfway  ground  on  which  each  could  stand 
without  detriment  to  the  other. 

So  his  mind  and  heart  played  the  coward's  part 
of  shifting  the  burden,  of  temporizing  with  truth, 
of  blinding  conscience  to  the  glaring  iniquity  of  the 
fault. 

He  reached  Biskra  at  a  late  hour,  yet  in  time 
to  visit  the  official  representative  there,  to  explain 
matters  and  to  communicate  by  cable  with  the  For- 
eign Office  in  London.  Having  made  the  drastic 
cleavage,  something  of  his  customary  confidence  re- 
turned. By  Francois  he  sent  back  to  Saada  a  long 
letter,  full  of  tender  solicitude  and  regret  for  the 
unavoidable  parting.  It  was  but  a  more  thought- 
ful elaboration  of  his  brief  farewell,  so  sincere  on 


THE  CABLEGRAM  197 

the  surface  that  it  swept  away  the  aggravating 
twinges  of  remorse.  To  this  deliberate  lulling  of 
Ms  own  conscience  he  devoted  himself  assiduously, 
all  through  the  long  journey  home  .  .  .  telling  him- 
self again  and  again  that  some  way  would  open  up 
whereby  Saada  might  be  accorded  both  justice  and 
consideration. 

From  Marseille  he  had  wired  to  his  mother  the 
time  of  his  arrival.  As  the  train  drew  into 
Victoria  through  the  dark  fog  of  a  cold  November 
afternoon,  he  caught  sight  of  her,  eagerly  scanning 
the  long  line  of  carriages.  She  waved  to  him,  and 
as  he  alighted,  looked  with  supreme  satisfaction  on 
his  sun-burned  face.  What  pleased  her  more,  how- 
ever, was  the  fact  of  his  being  alone. 

"It  is  ever  so  good  to  see  you  again,  Lance,"  she 
said,  kissing  him  with  more  than  usual  warmth. 
"It  seems  years  since  we  parted  in  Constantine, 
and  so  much  has  happened  since." 

He  forced  a  smile  and  fell  in  at  her  side  as  the 
press  closed  round  them. 

*'Yes,  a  great  deal  has  happened,"  he  admitted, 
wondering  how  best  to  break  the  news  which 
troubled  him.  "And  you  are  certainly  looking 
well." 

Helen  Railsford  laughed  complacently. 

"My  dear  boy,  I've  never  been  better  in  my  life. 
Uncle  Hugh's  death  was  a  real  godsend.  It  has 
given  me  quite  a  new  lease  of  life.  What  about 
your  luggage,  dear?" 

"I've  only  these  two  cases,"  he  answered.     "I 


198        A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

travelled  on  a  brush  and  comb  and  pair  of  pajamas. 
Now  what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Well,  I  thought  we  might  stay  tonight  at  the 
Grosvenor,  put  in  tomorrow  with  the  lawyers,  so 
that  you  will  know  just  how  matters  stand,  and  go 
down  to  the  country  by  motor  on  Thursday.  I 
had  the  best  of  Uncle  Hugh's  cars  brought  up  to 
town  ...  in  fact,  I  myself  use  it — Mr.  Strange- 
ways  raised  no  objection." 

Lance  merely  smiled,  faintly  amused  by  the 
thoroughness  with  which  his  mother  had  grasped 
the  new  situation. 

"Well,  I  suppose  this  good  news  is  really  true?" 
he  ventured,  as  the  taxi  purred  out  of  the  station 
yard. 

Helen  Railsford  beamed. 

"I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life,  Lance.  I 
arrived  only  ten  days  before  your  uncle  passed 
away.  I  think  he  must  have  endured  a  great  deal. 
However,  doubtless  the  suffering  softened  him. 
He  was  always  a  hard  man,  as  you  know. 
But  towards  the  last  he  came  round  to  a 
right  way  of  thinking,  and  admitted  he  had  never 
treated  me  as  a  brother  should.  I  told  him  I  had 
never  borne  him  the  slightest  ill-will:  that  was 
scarcely  true;  still,  it  sufficed.  Two  days  before 
he  died  ...  I  had  talked  a  lot  about  you  when 
I  found  his  thoughts  centred  in  your  direction 
...  he  made  a  fresh  will  and  settled  two  thousand 
a  year  on  me  for  life:  the  residue  is  yours  abso- 
lutely." 


THE  CABLEGRAM  199 

The  young  man  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  content. 

"And  the  residue,  mother?" 

"Well,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  property  in  Lon- 
don. I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Strangeways  about  it 
yesterday.  It  produces  something  like  nine  or  ten 
thousand  a  year.  Then,  of  course,  there  is  Lan- 
dringham  .  .  .  the  estate  is  very  large — one  of  the 
biggest  in  Norfolk,  with  seven  or  eight  outlying 
farms.  Altogether  Mr.  Strangeways  thinks  you 
can  look  to  a  regular  twenty-three  thousand  from 
that  source." 

Railsford  looked  pleased. 

"I  had  reckoned  about  thirty  thousand  a  year 
altogether.  Good  Lord!"  laughing  silently. 
"What  a  windfall  for  a  fellow  who's  been  used  to 
grubbing  along  on  a  Government  pittance." 

The  cab  was  stopping.  Helen  Railsford  rose 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"I  told  you,  years  ago,  it  might  come  at  any  time. 
That  was  why  I  was  so  dead  against  your  engage- 
ment with  Saada.  By  the  by,  how  did  you  leave 
her?" 

"Oh,  Saada  is  very  well,  thanks,"  he  replied, 
colouring.  "Naturally,  my  coming  away  so  sud- 
denly surprised  her.     We'll  talk  about  it  later." 

They  plunged  into  the  bustle  at  the  hotel  en- 
trance and  the  lift  carried  them  to  the  private  suite 
which  Mrs.  Railsford  had  engaged. 

"I  thought  you'd  prefer  a  quiet  dinner  with  me 
to  the  noise  of  the  dining-room,"  she  said,  remov- 
ing her  h^t  and  coat.    "Now  let  me  look  at  you 


200        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

and  see  how  the  desert  has  treated  you.  Of  course 
you're  very  browTi,  and  you  look  wonderfully  well. 
But  I  don't  suppose  you'll  want  to  go  back  again.'^ 

Lance  had  halted  by  the  long  window,  and  his 
troubled  gaze  took  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  traffic 
and  street  life  only  vaguely  discernible  through 
the  dense,  clammy  mist. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  suppose  I 
shall  often  long  for  the  sun,  the  pure  desert  air,  the 
colour  of  an  African  town.  In  a  very'  little  time  it 
got  hold  of  me :  I  didn't  realize  how  much  until  I 
landed  in  France,  and  saw  dark  forests  and  dreary 
expanses  swept  by  rain.  Yes,  this  is  splendid,"  as 
his  mother  preceded  him  into  the  private  sitting- 
room,  where  covers  had  been  set  for  two.  "I'm  not 
altogether  sorry  to  be  in  England  again." 

They  talked  commonplaces  over  the  meal  until 
the  waiter  left  and  they  were  able  to  retire  to  their 
sitting-room.  The  confession  which  Lance  had  to 
make  weighed  so  heavily  on  his  mind  that  he  re- 
lapsed into  a  moody  silence,  till  Mrs.  Railsford  re- 
marked, 

"I  was  never  so  relieved  in  my  life  as  when  the 
news  of  Hugh's  illness  brought  me  home.  I  simply 
loathed  the  thought  of  an  intimate  association  with 
those  dreadful  Arab  people.  What  occurred? 
Did  you  get  Saada's  father  to  join  you  before  you 
left  Constantine?" 

Lance  inclined  his  head. 

"There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  I  couldn't  have 
travelled  all  that  way  across  the  desert  with  Saada 


THE  CABLEGRAM  201 

alone.  So  we  sent  to  the  sheikh  in  Tunis  an,d 
asked  him  to  join  us." 

Mrs.  Railsford  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  poked 
the  logs  into  a  crackling  blaze.  Then  she  leaned 
back,  her  fingers  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"The  sheikh  is  all  right,  a  very  nice  old  man,  so 
far  as  Arabs  go,  but  I  can't  think  how  you  managed 
to  exist  with  him  all  those  weeks  in  an  hotel.  Did 
he  eat  cous-cous  and  dip  his  fingers  into  the  dish? 
That  is  what  most  of  them  do." 

Lance  was  looking  vainly  for  a  loophole  or  for 
something  to  ease  the  situation. 

"No,  mother,  I  was  agreeably  surprised.  I 
found  the  old  fellow  most  perfectly  mannered. 
You  see,  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  Western 
Europe  in  his  younger  days,  principally  in  Paris. 
And  among  his  own  people  he  is  most  highly  hon- 
oured. I  never  before  realized  how  cultured  a  well- 
born aristocratic  Arab  could  be.  In  El  Bouira  the 
natives  thought  a  great  deal  of  him  .  .  .  more,  in 
fact,  than  most  people  thought  of  me." 

"Naturally  so."  She  lifted  her  hand  to  give 
emphasis  to  the  argument.  "Nobody,  native  or 
European,  thinks  anything  of  a  white  man  engaged 
to  a  black  woman.  The  French  and  English  cold- 
shoulder  you ;  the  Orientals  regard  you  as  beneath 
contempt.  And  here  at  home  the  situation  would 
have  been  a  hundred  times  worse.  Just  think: 
you,  the  head*  of  a  great  house,  a  wealthy  land- 
owner, with  a  position  to  maintain  in  the  country 
...  it  would  have  been  terrible  had  you  not  taken 


202        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

the  situation  in  time.  That  is  why  I  wired  as  I 
did ;  the  moment  the  breath  was  out  of  your  uncle's 
body  I  sent  that  message  telling  you  what  to  do. 
You  must  have  managed  very  well  or  you  wouldn't 
be  here  now.  But  you  haven't  yet  told  me  how  you 
got  over  the  difficulty." 

He  leaned  forward. 

"I  didn't  get  over  it — as  I  should  like  to  have 
done,"  he  said  in  a  troubled  whisper.  "Saada  and 
I  were  married  an  hour  before  your  cable  arrived." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN^S  HEART 

HELEN  RAILSFORD  sat  huddled  in  her 
chair,  a  flabby,  inert  figure,  incapable  of 
speech.  There  are  some  shocks  so  great 
that  they  stun  physically  as  well  as  mentally,  leav- 
ing the  body  as  powerless  as  the  tongue  to  respond 
to  the  blow  beneath  which  it  is  labouring.  This 
was  one  of  them.  In  a  moment  her  son's  bald' 
statement  banished  the  illusions  of  weeks.  She 
had  schemed  and  planned  and  built  fairy  castles  in 
the  air  from  the  time  when  grave-faced  Mr. 
Strangeways,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  great 
library,  had  calmly  read  out  the  all-important 
clause  in  Hugh  Ferraby's  will, 

"And  to  my  nephew  Lance  Bertram  Railsford  I 
leave  the  residue  of  my  property  absolutely." 

In  that  moment  she  had  changed  into  a  spinner 
of  dreams.  She  saw  her  son  a  power  in  the  county, 
a  force  more  powerful  than  Ferraby  with  all  his 
money  had  ever  been.  Nothing  but  a  miracle 
could  save  him  from  greatness;  from  the  consular 
service  to  the  diplomatic  was  but  the  shortest  of 
steps ;  to  a  title,  possibly  a  peerage,  a  question  only 
of  time  and  arrangement.  ...  A  union  with  a 
daughter  of  a  noble  house  must  come  in  the  inevi- 

203 


204        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

table  order  of  things.  The  former  glories  of  a 
once-powerful  name  would  be  restored  in  the  per- 
son of  her  son — all  this  and  more  she  had  seen, 
and  dwelt  upon  with  the  passing 'of  the  weeks,  until 
the  fairy  picture  had  become  a  living  reality. 
But,  with  a  few  breathless  jerked-out  words,  Lance 
himself  had  blown  the  fantasy  into  the  air. 

"You  .  .  .  you  really  don't  mean  it.  Lance?" 
she  managed  to  get  out. 

His  head  drooped  over  his  interlocked  hands  and 
he  stared  moodily  into  the  flames.  The  fire  played 
tricks  of  deep  shadow  and  ruddy  glow  upon  the 
sombre  face,  and  gave  the  restless  woman  the  im- 
pression that  his  mind  was  troubled  on  the  same 
score  as  her  own. 

"I  do  mean  it,  mother,"  he  said,  with  an  effort 
to  control  himself.  "Your  cable  should  have 
reached  me  the  afternoon  before  the  wedding.  It 
didn't  get  to  El  Bouira  until  five  minutes  to  seven 
at  night.  They  kept  it  back  and  sent  it  up  with  a 
whfole  batch  the  next  morning." 

"Then — you — you  are  really  married*?" 

She  pulled  herself  out  of  the  dazed  state  and 
nerved  herself  to  face  the  shock*. 

"Actually  married,  dear.  The  wedding  took 
place  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  six- 
teenth— as  I  had  written  you :  I  opened  your  wire 
two  hours  later,  just  when  we  were  ready  to  sit 
down  to  luncheon." 

"Oh,  Heaven!"  she  whispered  faintly,  holding 
her  jewelled  fingers  over  her  eyes.     "This  is  awful! 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART    205 

To  think  tliat  after  all  the  trouble  I  took  to  save 
you  .  .  .  that  girl  .  .  .  she's  a  clever,  calculating, 
unscrupulous  little  fiend.  I  knew  it  all  along:  I 
told  you  so  before  you  left  England.  She  schemed 
for  years  to  catch  you — ever  since  you  took  her  into 
your  office.  And  now  .  .  .  what  a  fool  you  were, 
what  an  unutterable  fool!  Dtjn't  look  at  me  like 
that!"  banging  her  hand  in  fury  against  her  knee. 
"I  mean  it.  I  mean  it.  You've  spoilt  your  life, 
and  mine  too.  Nothing  but  social  ruin  and  degra- 
dation  await  you.     Whatever  made  you  do  it?'' 

"I  didn't  know  Uncle  Hugh  meant  to  leave  me  his 
money,"  he  replied  weakly.     "If  I  had " 

"Know!  You  never  know  anything,"  she  went 
on.  "Didn't  I  say,  over  and  over  again,  he  had  no 
one  else  to  leave  it  to?  He  hated  me  ...  as  much 
as  I  did  him  .  .  .  and  I  had  the  sense  to  see  it. 
But  you — ^you  were  different.  He  had  nothing 
against  you.  It  was  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your 
face  .  .  .  you  must  be  his  heir.  And  in  face  of 
that."  her  voice  rising  shrilly,"  you  deliberately 
chose  to  throw  yourself  away  on  a  black  woman 
...  a  nigger.  Oh,"  with  a  hysterical  gasp,  "I 
can't  bear  it!  ...  I  simply  can't." 

"Mother,  don't  make  a  scene,"  he  counselled, 
setting  a  restraining  grip  on  her  shoulder.  "Facts 
must  be  faced.  I'm  married  to  Saada  ...  so 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

She  looked  at  him  with  angry  eyes. 

"I — I  was  always  very  fond  of  her,"  he  continued 
wearily.     "I    believe   if   this   hadn't   happened    I 


206       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Bhould  have  settled  down  quite  happily.  Only, 
when  I  read  your  wire,  and  I  realized  what 
the  money  meant,  the  temptation  came — to  cut  and 
run.     I — I  almo&t  wish  I  hadn't  come  home." 

The  woman's  mouth  curved  in  a  sneer. 

"A  lot  of  use  wishing  that — now.  And  if  you 
were  so  solicitous  for  my  interest  in  the  matter, 
why  didn't  you  break  with  her  before  you  left  Eng- 
land? What  did  I  say  to  you  that  last  Sunday 
at  Redlands?  I  begged  and  prayed  of  you  to  give 
her  up.  But  you  were  obstinate,  pig-headed.  Now 
see  where  it  has  landed  you." 

"I — I  came  home,"  he  muttered  excusingly. 

"You  came  home  all  right.  And,  thank  good- 
ness, you  left  her  behind.  That,  however,  doesn't 
alter  the  essential  fact.  You  are  married  .  .  .  and 
you  can't  marry  again  without  committing  bigamy." 

"I've  no  desire  to  marry  any  one  .  .  .  even  if  I 
could."  His  manner  suggested  weariness.  "It 
wasn't  easy — to  leave  her  like  that." 

"Like  what?"  Helen  Railsford  showed  sudden 
interest. 

He  stared  moodily  into  the  blaze. 

"I  had  to  tell  a  lot  of  lies.  It  wasn't  a  nice  thing 
to  do  ...  to  a  girl  like  Saada.  She  always  played 
the  game  with  me.  I  said  you  were  ill — almost 
dying,  or  something  of  the  sort,  and  on  the  strength 
of  it  ...  r  came  away." 

The  figure  in  the  chair  straightened. 

"Then — she  doesn't  know — the  real  reason  why 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     207 

you  left?  Hadn't  you  the  courage  to  break  with 
her  definitely?" 

Her  scorn  whipped  a  spot  of  colour  into  Rails- 
ford's  pallid  cheeks. 

"How  could  I?  She  trusted  me  .  .  .  and  it  was 
her  wedding-day.  Heaven  knows,  I  behaved  rot- 
tenly enough." 

The  woman  groaned. 

"Then  the  position  is — at  any  moment  she  may 
turn  up  and  claim  her  place — as  your  wife?" 

"Ye-yes.    I  couldn't  prevent  it." 

A  long  pause  followed,  through  which  two  minds 
were  busy,  one  looking  forward,  the  other  back  into 
the  past. 

Mrs.  Railsford  slowly  recovered  her  composure. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do.  Lance — to  pension 
her  off.  Like  all  coloured  women,  she's  native  at 
heart  .  .  .  which  means  she  has  her  price.  You 
must  get  rid  of  her,  either  with  a  lump  sum  or 
an  allowance.  We  had  better  take  Strangeways* 
opinion." 

"Thanks" — his  tone  determined.  "I  prefer  to 
keep  this  as  much  as  possible  a  secret." 

"But  can  you?  The  marriage  is  bound  to  be 
reported  in  the  little  local  paper,  if  there  is  one, 
and  copies  may  drift  to  England." 

"I  thought  of  that.  Before  I  left  Biskra  I  gave 
the  chauffeur  a  letter  tof  take  to  the  editor  of  the 
El  Bouira  Gazette.  No  announcemeilt  will  ap- 
pear." 


208        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

She  laughed — a  harsh,  discordant  note  that  set 
his  nerves  jangling  again. 

"At  least  you  had  the  sense,  then,  to  see  eye  to 
eye  with  your  mother,  if  you  haven't  now.  I  sup- 
pose, though,  quite  a  number  of  people  know." 

"Oh,  lots,"  he  answered  drearily.  "El  Bouira 
has  a  considerable  European  population.  I  can't 
make  out  that  I'm  not  married — ^if  that's  what 
you're  thinking." 

"I'm  thinking  only  of  you,"  she  returned  curtly; 
"of  the  mess  you've  got  yourself  into.  However," 
her  thoughts  harking  back,  "it  is  quite  evident  we 
can't  hide  up  the  marriage.  The  next  thing  to  try — 
is  to  annul  it." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"How  can  I?  There's  no  cause.  I  went  into 
it  of  my  own  free  will.  We  were  married  in  the 
English  church." 

"Saada  is  a  Mahommedan.  Can't  you  get  out  on 
that  count?" 

"Saada  is  a  professed  Christian — a  confirmed 
member  of  the  Church  of  England." 

"I  thought — once  •  a  Mahommedan  always  a 
Mahommedan." 

"Sheikh  Medene  never  made  any  attempt  to 
force  his  religion  on  her.  She  told  me  .  .  .  almost 
his  last  words,  when  he  sent  her  to  Europe,  were, 
'Over  your  religious  belief  I  wish  to  exercise  no  in- 
fluence or  control.  Now  that  you  have  come  to 
years  of  discretion  you  are  free  to  choose  for  your- 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     209 

self.'  I  was  surprised  when  I  found  out  she  had 
embraced  the  Christian  faith." 

"Perlfaps  it  will  give  her  courage  to  face  the 
trouble  she  has  got  herself  into,"  the  woman  re- 
torted. "The  position  seems  to  grow  worse.  I 
suppose  next  you'll  be  telling  me  you've  arranged 
for  her  to  follow  you  to  England." 

"No.  I  simply  said  you  were  ill  and  had  sent 
for  me.  She  raised  no  objection  to  my  coming 
away." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  The  plump 
fingers  were  extended  over  the  fire  to  drive  out  the 
dead  coldness.  "She  can't  appear  at  Landringham 
as  your  wife.  The  entire  county  would  turn  its 
back.  At  every  turn  both  you  and  she — and  I,  too 
— would  be  cold-shouldered.  You  would  be  ostra- 
cised— an  object  of  contempt  and  derision." 

"I  suppose  I  should."  A  helpless  sigh  left  him. 
With  a  tired  gesture  he  flung  the  charred  end  of 
the  cigar  into  the  grate.  "Certainly  the  position 
looks  difficult." 

"It's  worse  than  that."  Helen  Railsford  became 
more  decisive.  "You  would  be  a  pariah,  an  outcast 
among  your  own  people.  You  know  the  position 
you  will  have  to  occupy  in  the  county — the  lord- 
lieutenancy  is  almost  as  certain  to  come  to  you  as 
it  did  to  Uncle  Hugh.  How  can  a  man  fill  an  im- 
portant public  position — with  a  black  wife?" 

"It's  hardly  fair  to  call  Saada  black,  mother." 

She  laughed. 


210        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"What  about  these  Eurasians  who  come  here 
married  to  white  men?  Don't  we  regard  them  as 
black,  though  their  skins  may  be  as  white  as  yours? 
And  some  of  them  are  of  high  caste,  too.  Does  any 
one  think  anything  of  them,  or  receive  them?  Of 
course  not!  You  can't  blend  the  West  with  the 
East.     English  people  won't  put  up  with  it." 

"It  is  diflficult,  I  agree,"  he  mumbled. 

She  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  unveiled  con- 
tempt. 

"That's  all  you  say,  *It  is  difficult.'  Of  course  it's 
difficult.  You  saw  that  a  week  ago,  when  first  you 
left  her.  But  what  I  want  to  know  is,  what  you 
intend  doing.  You  can't  go  on  muttering,  *It's 
difficult,'  and  leave  her  to  come  here  and  fasten 
herself  on  you.  That's  what  will  happen,  if  you 
don't  stir  yourself." 

He  turned  like  a  baited  animal  at  bay. 

"Well,  what  do  you  suggest?  I'm  willing  to  do 
anything  for  the  best.  I've  already  taken  the 
plunge  by  lying  to  her.  Shall  I  write  and  say  you 
are  still  very  ill,  and  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question 
to  leave  you,  but  that  when  you're  well  again  I'll 
return  to  El  Bouira?    Is  there  anything  in  that?" 

Mrs.  Railsford  inclined  her  head. 

"Just  about  as  much  as  saying,  *I'm  chained  to 
England  for  an  indefinite  period,  so  I  think  you  had 
better  come  home.'  Of  course,  you  know  it  won't 
do.  I  can't  imagine  what's  in  the  back  of  your 
mind.  You  must  break  with  her  ...  so  why  tem- 
porize?   You  don't  want  her  here." 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     211 

"Perhaps  it  is  best  she  shouldn't  come." 

"Best !"  with  a  sneer.  "What  sort  of  a  life  would 
it  be?  No;  the  course  is  clear  .  .  .  write  and  say 
quite  plainly  your  marriage  was  a  mistake;  you 
never  wish  to  see  her  again,  but  you  are  willing, 
so  long  as  she  keeps  out  of  England,  to  make  her 
an  adequate  allowance." 

Lance  shifted  uneasily. 

"I'd  never  dreamt  of  anything — quite  so  drastic. 
Isn't  there — some  milder  course?  I  don't  believe 
money  would  appeal  to  Saada.  She's  not  that 
type  of  girl." 

"Nonsense!  Money  appeals  to  every  woman — 
especially  an  Arab.  They  worship  jewellery  and 
pretty  clothes.  Give  her  enough  to  deck  herself 
out  with  and  she'll  never  trouble  you." 

The  nerve-strain  had  brought  tiny  beads  of 
moisture  to  Railsford's  forehead.  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  and  rising  unsteadily,  moved 
to  the  middle  of  the  room.  From  the  street  rose 
the  dull  roar  of  innumerable  taxicabs.  Yet  with 
his  mind  filled  with  the  girl  he  had  so  cruelly, 
deserted,  El  Bouira  did  not  seem  so  very  far  away. 

"If  only  I  could  be  sure  of  never  meeting  her  I 
shouldn't  mind,"  he  reflected.  "Supposing  I  sent 
such  a  letter  ...  I  wonder  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Railsford  turned  impatiently. 

"Why  should  you  bother  to  write?  Leave  every- 
thing to  your  lawyers.  Tell  them  you  were  in- 
veigled into  a  foolish  marriage  .  .  .  since  you  have 
come  away  you  realize  you  don't  care  for  her,  and 


212       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

that  it  will  be  better  for  all  parties  concerned  if 
you  go  your  respective  ways.  Strangeways  can 
put  it  much  better  than  you  can.  He  will  say 
you're  not  disposed  to  be  ungenerous;  that,  pro- 
vided she  remains  in  North  Africa,  and  on  a  receipt 
of  a  signed  application  each  month,  she  will  receive 
an  allowance  of  fifty  pounds." 

"How  much  is  that?  Six  hundred  a  year.  It 
doesn't  seem  much  out  of  thirty  thousand.  I  be- 
lieve she  could  claim  more." 

"Well,  make  it  a  hundred  if  you  like.  Twelve 
hundred  a  year.  I  call  that  most  handsome.  She 
wouldn't  have  had  half  as  much  had  you  stayed  at 
El  Bouira." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  do,"  he  admitted,  strok- 
ing his  chin%  "All  the  same,  I  very  much  doubt 
if  she  will  take  it." 

"You  mean — she  won't  think  it  enough?" 

"Not  that  at  all.  I  don't  believe  money  will 
compensate  Saada  one  little  bit.  She  never  cared 
how  much  or  how  little  I  had." 

"Very  well,  then.  Don't  send  any.  Simply  say 
you  don't  wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her. 
In  my  opinion  that  is  as  much  as  she  deserves." 

"I  must  do  something,"  he  said  with  sudden 
decision.  "No,  I  shan't  instruct  Strangeways  at 
all.  I'll  do  everything  myself.  It  will  have  more 
force  coming  from  me.  I'll  go  down  and  see  the 
place  first,  to  make  quite  sure." 

"Sure  of  what?" 

"It's  worth  while  breaking  her  heart." 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEAET     213 

"At  least  you  seem  to  understand  her." 

"I  do,  and  I  understand  myself  too.  However, 
I  see  your  jDoint  of  view,  and  tomorrow,  if  I  come 
round  entirely  to  your  way  of  thinking,  I'll  do  as 
you  suggest." 

Lance  went  down  to  Landringham  in  an  un- 
comfortable frame  of  mind.  Impressed  though  he 
had  been  from  the  first  by  his  unexpected  good  for- 
tune, he  was  not  finding  it  easy  to  cut  Saada  en- 
tirely out  of  his  life.  That  it  must  come  to  this 
before  long  he  never  doubted:  it  was  the  cold, 
calculated  brutality  of  the  process  which  bothered 
him. 

Through  the  long  journey  in  the  luxurious 
limousine  he  maintained  a  stolid  silence,  seeking 
one  excuse  after  another  to  justify  his  action. 
Surely  Saada,  native  by  instinct  and  heredity, 
could  find  more  lasting  happiness-  with  her  own 
people.  She  would  be  more  content  under  the 
placid  skies  of  Africa  than  facing  the  stress  and 
turmoil  of  social  existence  in  England.  Besides, 
the  position  she  must  have  been  called  upon  to 
occupy,  considering  the  wealth-  and  importance 
of  her  husband,  would  never  have  been  a  pleasure 
to  a  nature  so  simple  and  retiring.  Always  she 
must  have  felt  terribly  out  of  place. 

And  yet  to  every  argument  there  was  an  answer 
which  condemned  the  cause  of  his'  reasoning. 
Saada  was  his  wife  by  the  law  of  God  as  well  as  by 
the  law  of  man.  He  had  vowed  himself  to  a  sacred 
purpose  which  already  he  was  anxious  to  evade. 


214        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Not  that  he  had  lost  all  affection  for  her,  but 
simply  that  she  failed  to  fit  in  with  the  scheme  of 
things.  He  tried  to  find  satisfaction  in  inwardly 
extolling  the  wisdom  of  a  mother  whose  practical 
mind  could  rise  over  such  minor  considerations 
as  the  imaginary  welfare  of  others.  She  had  lived 
life  more  fully  than  he  had  ever  done;  therefore 
she  must  know  what  was  best. 

He  administered  the  conscience-lulling  sedative 
in  large  and  frequent  doses,  and  felt  annoyed  with 
its  failure  to  produce  the  desired  effect.  The  end 
of  the  silent  argument  was  always  the  same :  Saada 
was  his  wife,  and  his  duty  was  to  stand  by  her. 

It  needed  more  than  the  power  of  wealth  to  sway 
him  .  .  .  the  effect  of  something  more  concrete. 
He  found  it  in  his  first  glimpse  of  the  house  after 
a  lapse  of  years.  He  had  visited  there  often  enough 
as  a  boy,  but  the  impression  was  rather  one  of  a 
grand  and  stately  mansion  that  awed  him  with  its 
size  and  splendour. 

Now,  as  the  car  purred  along  the  winding  drive, 
through  spacious  parkland  dotted  with  dwarf  oaks 
and  aged  elms,  and  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  long 
red  castellated  front  with  the  middle  tower  stand- 
ing clear  above  the  surrounding  country,  he  began 
to  experience  something  of  the  pride  of  possession. 
Presently  the  west  side  emerged,  perfect  in  its 
original  grandeur,  retaining  the  central  great  hall 
and  the  end  double-storey  wings. 

Landringham  had  always  been  a  large  house, 
from  the  time  of  its  erection  in  the  fourteenth 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     215 

century,  and  future  generations  had  added  to  its 
greatness. 

His  eyes  kindled  as  they  took  in  the  steep  tiled 
gables  of  the  oldest  portion,  the  exquisite  timber- 
work  bleached  to  its  natural  colour  of  silver  grey 
by  long  exposure  to  sun,  wind,  and  rain.  The  high 
gates  of  delicate  hammered  ironwork  which  en- 
closed the  large  forecourt  laid  out  with  gardens 
of  formal  design  were  open;  he  passed  through, 
his  face  glowing  with  approval.  Above  the  moat, 
crossed  by  a  balustraded  bridge  of  carved  Tudor 
stonework,  high  windows  filled  with  armourial 
stained  glass  looked  out  upon  broad  stretches  of 
velvet-green  turf. 

The  great  house,  sleeping  through  the  sunlight 
of  the  winter's  afternoon,  suggested  a  dignified  re- 
pose which  in  his  present  state  he  found  restful. 
As  the  wide  door  opened  he  stepped  into  the  central 
hall,  panelled  and  rafted  and  mysterious  in  the 
higher  reaches,  with  dim  changing  shadows.  A 
wide  staircase  with  carved  oak  balustrading  ran  a 
zig-zag  course  from  landing  to  landing,  and  in 
every  recess  stood  a  motionless  figure  in  armour. 
Painted  faces  from  the  wall — ^men  in  ruffles  and 
slashed  doublets,  buff  coats,  Oudenarde  wigs  and 
bucket  boots,  bare-throated  beautiful  women  in  the 
dresses  of  Charles  the  Second's  day — seemed  to 
watch  him  as  he  passed.  He  moved  from  one  room 
to  another,  from  a  paradise  of  Eastern  art  to  the 
grave  simplicity  of  Elizabethan  living-rooms — and 
at  the  end  of  two  hours  his  inspection  of  his  vast 


216        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

inheritance  was  far  from  finished.  Escorted  by 
a  silent-footed  man-servant,  he  passed  down  into 
the  vaults  and  strong  rooms;  at  a  click,  lights 
leapt  up  and  grilled  doors  were  opened,  to  expose 
to  sight  the  gold  and  silver  treasures  of  centuries. 

"The  plate  has  all  been  examined  and  checked, 
sir,  by  the  expert  Mr.  Strangeways  brought  down," 
the  servant  said,  adding  after  a  discreet  cough, 
"And  he  said,  sir,  that  at  Christie's  it  would  fetch 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds." 

Lance  strove  to  preserve  an  outward  composure, 
though  his  pulses  beat  rapidly  as  he  touched  cases 
of  apostle  spoons.  Commonwealth  cups,  and  deli- 
cate baskets  of  pierced  and  filigree  work.  To  the 
man  who  had  struggled  and  contrived  on  a  few 
hundreds  a  year  this  was  like  a  dream  fancy  from 
the  Arabian  Nights. 

He  went  to  the  library  alone  and  stared  about 
him — at  the  hand-tooled  bindings,  the  statuary 
and  pictures  in  the  dark  recesses,  the  moulded  ceil- 
ing which  had  been  the  life-work  of  a  skilful  Jaco- 
bean craftsman.  The  vast  state-rooms  with  their 
tapestried  walls  and  gilt  furniture  awed  him;  he 
was  glad  to  move  into  the  more  livable  quarters  of 
the  home. 

In  a  small  turret-room  tea  had  been  set ;  he  found 
his  mother  breathless  with  delight  and  wonder. 

"I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  full  of  treasures,"  she 
enthused.  "While  your  uncle  lay  dying  there  was 
little  chance  to  inspect  anything.  One  never 
knows  what  servants  will  say.     I  think  you  might 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     217 

dismiss  this  lot  and  leave  me  to  engage  fresh  ones. 
The  Chinese  bedrooms  are  a  dream.  What  do  you 
think  of  it  all?" 

Inwardly  his  excitement  matched  hers. 

"I  am  just  dazed.  It  doesn't  seem  real.  I  keep 
comparing  everything  with  the  little  villa  at  El 
Bouira.  I  wonder  what  Saada  would  think  of  all 
this." 

Helen  Kailsford  frowned. 

"For  goodness'  sake  get  her  out  of  your  mind! 
We  discussed  and  settled  that  point  long  ago: 
Saada  can  have  no  possible  part  in  this.  The  serv- 
ants would  turn  up  their  noses  in  disgust  and  leave ; 
everyone  would  cold-shoulder  you.  You  must  fill 
the  place  with  your  friends:  arrange  about  the 
shooting — have  Mr.  Kirby  up  to  see  how  the  covers 
are.  I  saw  quite  a  number  of  birds  as  we  came 
along." 

Lance  came  out  of  dark  abstraction. 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
window  and  staring  out  over  the  park  bathed  in  the 
rose-red  glow  of  the  western  sun,  with  a  gauze-like 
curtain  of  mist  rising  in  the  valley.  "We  must  en- 
joy our  inheritance  alone.  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so 
magnificent.  Saada  would  feel  horribly  out  of 
place  here.  I  shall  write  as  soon  as  we  settle 
down.  .  .  ." 

Helen  Kailsford  eyed  him  coldly  over  the  gilt 
rim  of  her  tea-cup. 

"My  dear  boy,  whatever  is  the  good  of  putting  off 
the  inevitable?     It  will  be  weeks  before  you  can 


218        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

settle  in,  and  at  any  moment  she  may  take  it  into 
her  head  to  join  you.  How  long  do  you  imagine 
you  can  keep  your  good  fortune  to  yourself?  As 
goon  as  your  uncle's  will  is  proved  the  papers  will 
publish  the  amount  of  it  and  the  most  interesting 
points.  Some  obliging  friend  will  send  out  to 
North  Africa  .  .  .  and  then  the  fat  will  be  in  the 
fire." 

"I  don't  believe  for  a  moment  Saada  would  come," 
he  said.  "She's  dreadfully  proud,  and  as  soon  as 
she  finds  out  I  deceived  her — about  you,  I  mean — 
she'll  have  no  more  to  do  with  me," 

"At  least  you'll  be  saving  money,  my  dear. 
Have  you  decided  anything  .  .  .  about  the  allow- 
ance? I  really  think  twelve  hundred  a  year  much 
too  high." 

Lance  came  to  the  table  again  and  passed  his  cup 
a  second  time. 

"I  was  turning  that  over  on  the  way  down.  As  I 
said  yesterday,  I  don't  think  she  would  accept  any- 
thing. And  yet — I  can't  leave  her  unprovided  for. 
Her  father  has  nothing.  He  gave  pretty  well  all 
he  had  to  our  home.  I  think  the  best  plan  would 
be  to  write  to  Saada  and  say  the  marriage  was  a 
mistake:  that  I've  discovered  since  I  came  away  I 
don't  really  care  for  her,  and  this  being  the  case,  we 
are  better  apart.  Thanks.  No  sugar  this  time. 
And  then — about  the  allowance — — " 

"It  will  take  a  great  deal  to  keep  up  a  place 
like  this.  Besides,  you  are  admitting  a  liabil- 
ity .  .  ." 


THE  SALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  HEART     219 

"Which  exists,  whether  I  admit  it  or  not,"  he 
replied.  "No,  with  regard  to  that,  I  shall  be  sav- 
ing a  great  deal  of  trouble — and  possibly  Saada  a 
good  deal  of  pain — if  I  leave  Strangeways  to  deal 
direct  with  the  sheikh.  The  money  can  be  paid 
to  him  .  .  .  enough  to  keep  them  both  in  comfort 
.  .  .  and  Saada  need  know  nothing  about  it." 

"With  this  condition,  my  dear — that  no  attempt 
is  made  to  molest  you,  or  make  your  generosity  the 
basis  of  bargaining.  It  should  be  an  unconditional 
acceptance  of  a  very  generous  gift.  Yes,  I  believe 
you  are  right.  Write  to  Saada  tonight — in  the 
manner  you  suggest  .  .  .  and  leave  the  business 
entirely  to  the  lawyers." 

Lance  left  his  mother,  and,  lighting  a  cigar, 
strolled  away  to  the  banqueting-hall.  Here  the 
servants  were  already  busy,  setting  covers  on  the 
long  refectory  tables,  and  the  high  silver  candel- 
abra were  being  brought  in.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone,  and  sought  once  more  the  quiet  of  the  li- 
brary. He  lit  a  couple  of  eandles,  for  the  short 
winter  day  was  fast  drawing  in,  and  seating  him- 
self before  his  uncle's  desk,  he  wrote  to  Saada  in 
the  spirit  of  the  conversation  with  his  mother. 

The  clock  in  the  turret  over  the  stables  was  strik- 
ing six  as  he  went  down  the  shallow  stairs  to  put 
the  letter  into  the  box.  The  irrevocable  step  was 
taken,  he  felt  more  at  ease  than  he  had  done 
through  many  troubled  days. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  MAN  WHO  WON 

SAADA,  after  the  first  shock  of  her  husband's 
faithlessness,  preserved  an  outward  calm. 
Neither  to  her  father  nor  to  her  friends  did 
she  say  anything.  It  was,  for  the  time  at  any  rate, 
a  secret  locked  in  her  own  heart.  As  to  the  ulti- 
mate result  of  Lance's  duplicity  she  was  in  doubt: 
whether,  in  the  course  of  time  and  more  sober  rea- 
soning, he  would  endeavour  to  clear  away  thfe  bar- 
rier which  his  conduct  had  raised. 

For  a  loug  time,  after  the  guests  had  gone,  the 
sheikh  had  insisted  on  her  seeking  the  rest  and 
quiet  of  her  room.  She  stood  by  the  open  window 
and  stared  unseeingly  down  the  blanched,  winding 
road  which  her  husband  had  taken.  The  desert 
wind  blew  refreshingly  on  her  palid  face  and 
caught  the  loose  tresses  of  her  hair ;  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers  in  the  garden  filled  the  air  with  a 
drowsy  perfume.  She,  who  had  always  loved 
Africa  until  now,  wanted  to  go  away  .  .  .  far  be- 
yond the  towns  into  the  silent  wastes  of  sand,  and 
there  fight  out  the  bitter  discord  in  her  soul. 

The  hour  had  brought  understanding.  She  had 
never  known  Lance  really.  The  sudden  stroke  of 
fortune  had  revealed  the  character  hitherto  hidden 

220 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  221 

from  her.  For  the  love  of  money  and  position  he 
had  thrown  her  aside  ...  as  something  of  little 
consequence  and  less  worth. 

And  this  was  her  wedding-day !  On  the  altar  of 
surrender  her  hopes  lay  crushed  and  dead.  She 
could  not  tell  her  father.  There  was  no  reason 
why  his  life  should  be  still  further  darkened  by 
the  knowledge  of  her  sorrow.  In  time  the  man 
she  had  trusted  and  tried  to  love  would  write 
.  .  .  and  perhaps  express  regret  for  his  action. 
But  there  could  be  no  going  back:  no  union  of  a 
dead  with  a  living  heart.  She  resolved  all  this 
and  more  in  the  first  few  hours  following  his  de- 
parture, and  resolved  that,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened, she  could  never  live  in  the  house  which  was 
to  have  been  her  home. 

She  had  a  little  money  left  .  .  .  enough  to  keep 
both  her  and  the  sheikh  at  the  hotel  until  she  was 
in  a  frame  of  mind  to  decide  what  best  could  be 
done  for  the  future. 

She  was  quite  sure  that,  in  a  little  while,  she 
would  hear  from  Lance  .  .  .  either  to  say  he 
would  not  be  returning  to  Africa  or  to  suggest  the 
reunion  which  she  could  never  agree  to. 

The  greatest  difficulty  that  faced  Saada  was  to 
advance  a  sensible  reason  why  she  should  not  go 
to  the  villa.  The  sheikh  himself  raised  the  point 
the  following  morning. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  get  into  your  home,  child 
— to  have  around  you  your  own  pretty  things." 


222        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

She  Gould  have  laughed  at  the  bitter  irony  of 
it  all.  To  walk  the  silent  rooms  which  should 
have  reechoed  to  their  happy  laughter;  to  touch 
the  presents  he  had  given  her  ...  to  be  reminded 
in  a  score  of  ways  of  the  happiness  that  had  passed 
her  by. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  a  sad  smile  flitted  across 
her  face. 

"I  shall  leave  everything  just  as  it  is  until  he 
returns/^  she  answered  quietly.  "It  is  his  home. 
We  will  go  to  it — together." 

Yet  she  knew  in  her  heart  this  could  not  be: 
that,  though  she  forgave  him,  she  could  never  feel 
towards  him  as  a  wife  towards  a  husband.  He  had 
sacrificed  her  on  the  altar  of  greed  and  ambition, 
and  only  the  cold  ashes  of  a  romance  that  was 
dead,  and  beyond  recall,  remained. 

The  sheikh,  though  sorely  puzzled,  surrendered 
submissively.  To  see  Saada  happ.y  in  her  own 
choice  had  always  been  his  first  care.  To  bow  to 
the  desire  of  loved  ones  .  .  .  had  not  the  Koran 
written  the  enjoinder  in  letters  of  gold  upon  the 
walls  of  his  house? 

One  morning,  some  five  or  six  days  after  her 
husband's  departure,  Saada  was  returning  from  a 
solitai-y  walk  to  the  oasis  of  El  Schri  near  by.  She 
loved  to  be  there  alone — to  throw  herself  down  on  a 
mossy  bank  in  the  shade  of  tall,  graceful  palms, 
and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  running  stream  that 
wound  its  silvery  course  through  the  island  of 
luscious  green  until  it  was  lost  in  the  thirsty  sand. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  223 

She  had  reached  the  end  of  the  narrow  street 
faced  by  the  square  tower  of  the  mosque  of  Beni 
Djama,  where  the  white  flag  hung  lazily  in  the  heat 
of  high  noon  and  the  mueddin  in  a  shrill  voice 
called  the  midday  prayer,  when  behind  her  she 
heard  a  voice. 

"Mrs.  Railsford!" 

She  turned,  and  a  pleased  smile  suffused  her 
brown  cheeks  at  sight  of  the  tall  form  of  John 
Williams.  He  had  altered  since  the  Batna  days: 
a  well-made  suit  fitted  his  splendid  figure ;  from  the 
crown  of  his  massive  head  to  the  tips  of  his  white 
boots  he  looked  nicely  groomed  and  well  cared  for. 

"This  is  a  great  surprise  I"  she  said,  extending 
her  small  hand,  which  he  took  in  a  big  hearty  grip. 
"I  heard  you  were  expected  in  El  Bouira,  hut  had 
no  idea  when  you  would  be  coming." 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  eyeing  her 
curiously. 

Almost  without  thinking  she  blurted  out, 

"Oh,  from  Mr.  Snitch,  of  course.  He  said  the 
other   day   he   had    written   to   you   at   Batna." 

A  grateful  laugh  escaped  Williams,  and  he 
wrung  her  hand  more  heartily  still. 

"I  can  see  now.  The  mystery  no  longer  puzzles 
me.  It  is  to  you  I  owe  my  good  luck.  Mr.  Snitch 
was  very  close.  He  wouldn't  say  who  had  recom- 
mended me.    And  now  I  know  ...  it  was  you." 

She  blushed  guiltily. 

"I  hope  .  .  .  you  didn't  mind?" 

"Mind!"    His  manner  was  touched  with  a  cer- 


224        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

tain  graveness.  "I  owe  all  I  have  in  life  to  you. 
You  lifted  me  out  of  the  mire  in  Tunis;  because 
of  your  friendship  I  resolved  to  be  a  man  ...  to 
fight  once  again  and  win  back  my  self-esteem. 
And  now  you  have  put  in  my  way  a  fresh  chance. 
I  wonder  .  .  .  why  you  have  done  all  this  for  me." 

"I  couldn't  tell  you.  I  simply  don't  know  .  .  . 
unless " 

"Unless — what?"  he  questioned. 

Saada  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  grave  in- 
quiry. 

"I  don't  know — unless  it  was  the  desire  which 
every  woman  has  to  see  a  man  get  back  to  what  he 
once  was.  You  know  how  I  have  always  felt  about 
you  .  .  .  ever  since  that  dreadful  night  in  Con- 
stantine." 

He  laughed  softly,  though  his  grey  eyes  dark- 
ened. 

"You  have  not  forgotten,  then?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  shall  never  forget.  I  should  not  be  here  now 
but  for  you.  But  tell  me,  Mr.  Williams,  why  did 
you  leave  behind  for  me  and  my  husband" — she 
had  to  steady  herself  to  get  out  the  words — "that 
terrible  letter?  It  wasn't  true,  you  know;  I  knew 
it  wasn't  true  the  moment  I  saw  you  a  week  later 
in  Batna.  You  hadn't  slipped  back :  I  don't  believe 
you  have  touched  the  drug  since  yon  gave  your 
word." 

"Is  your  faith  in  me  so  great ?'^ 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  225 

She  looked  down  to  hide  something  in  her  deep 
violet  eyes. 

"It  has  never  wavered,"  she  said  simply. 
"There  was  a  look  on  your  face — something  in  your 
voice,  when  you  made  the  promise.  I  felt  that 
all  the  fiends  from  the  lower  world  could  never 
drag  you  down  again." 

"It's  awfully  encouraging  to  hear  you  say  that," 
he  admitted.  "They  had  a  very  good  try.  For  days 
and  nights  I  was  like  a  mad  thing,  tossed  this  way 
and  that  between  the  desire  to  win  out  and  the 
craving  for  the  drug.  But,  somehow,  the  long 
weary  battles  always  ended  the  same  way:  I  just 
told  myself  to  keep  on  thinking  of  you ;  to  remem- 
ber your  face  as  I  had  last  seen  it  .  .  .  and  I  used 
to  repeat  your  parting  words.  You  don't  know 
how  much  they  meant  to  me." 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  said,  staring  into  the  blind- 
ing sunshine.  "They  just  helped  you  when  you 
were  weary.  I  can  see  you  have  suffered:  I  can 
also  see  .  .  .  you  have  conquered." 

He  faced  her — a  magnificently  proportioned 
figure,  in  the  blaze  of  the  hot  sunlight  .  .  .  his 
strong  face  marred  but  resolute,  his  immensely 
broad  shoulders  thrown  back  with  a  suggestion  of 
pride. 

"Do  I  still  show  the  dreadful  tell-tale  marks?" 
His  tone  was  edged  with  yearning. 

Saada's  lips  trembled  at  the  childlike  appeal 
coming  straight  from  the  heart  of  this  strong  man. 


226        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

**Some  of  the  signs  will  always  be  there  ...  to 
remind  you  of  what  you  once  were;  to  encourage 
you  to  remain  as  you  are/'  she  said  gently.  "And 
yet,"  regarding  him  critically,  "you  are  so  very 
different.  Your  eyes  are  brighter,  your  mouth  is 
firmer  ...  I  was  almost  going  to  say  more 
grim  .  .  .  and  you  walk  as  though  you  had  flung  a 
heavy  burden  from  your  shoulders.  Still,  in  some 
curious  way — ^you  are  the  same." 

His  hand  went  to  his  head,  and  as  the  lean  brown 
fingers  ran  through  the  thick  iron-grey  hair,  he 
asked, 

**You  don't  think  I've  improved,  then?" 

She  nodded  briskly. 

"Of  course  I  do.  You  were  a  pitiful  object  when 
you  came  over  that  wall,  full  into  the  midst  of 
those  terrible  Arabs  ...  a  mere  bundle  of  rags 
and  as  thin  as  a  knife.  Now  you've  filled  out 
splendidly — and  you're  looking  ever  so  strong." 

He  laughed,  and  stretched  his  great  arms  to  the 
blue  of  the  sky. 

"I'm  as  strong  as  a  lion.  You  can't  realize  what 
it  feels  like  to  be  free.  For  years  I  was  a  slave, 
shackled  and  bound.  Yet  the  touch  of  a  woman's 
hand,  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  freed  me. 
I  wonder  if  you  realize  how  much  you've  done?" 

"I  realize,"  answered  Saada,  "that  life  must  be 
quite  different." 

"It  is,"  he  said  briskly.  "From  sunrise  to  sun- 
set I  thank  God  for  the  power  to  live,  to  enjoy 
every  hour  and  minute  of  the  day.    I  revel  in  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  227 

sun,  in  the  flowers,  in  the  strength  which  He  has 
given  me ;  but  most  of  all,  I  thank  Him  for  sending 
you." 

His  voice  was  hushed  to  a  reverent  whisper;  he 
looked  away,  beyond  the  slight,  graceful  figure 
of  the  girl  standing  in  the  sunlight,  to  the  sweep 
of  mystic  blue  where  sky  and  desert  met. 

"I  worked  like  a  slave  in  Batna — but  I  wasn't  a 
slave  really,"  he  went  on.  "Those  were  the  days 
during  which  I  was  slipping  free  from  my  mana- 
cles. I  began  to  feel  I  had  earned  the  right  to  live. 
There's  nothing  like  real  hard  work  to  teach  a  fel- 
low self-respect." 

He  fell  in  beside  her  again,  and  she  said, 

"You  haven't  yet  told  me  .  .  .  why  you  wrote 
that  letter.  Did  you  want  me  to  be  disappointed 
in  you?" 

"Not  exactly."  He  broke  off.  "Oh,  it's  rather 
difficult  to  explain.  I  thought  you  and  your  hus- 
band would  come  to  see  me.  It  isn't  easy  to  face 
one's  fellows  when  one  has  been  so  long  down." 

"You  didn't  mind  facing  me?" 

"You — you  are  different.  I  seem  to  have  got  to 
know  you  .  .  .  ever  so  well,  though  we  were  only 
a  few  hours  together.  I  didn't  even  know  Mr. 
Kailsford.  I — I  had  kept  away  from  white  men 
for  years." 

"So  you  wanted  me  to  think  you  had  fallen 
back?"  she  said,  mildly  reproving. 

He  bit  his  underlip.     Then  he  jerked  out, 

"Somehow — I  thought  it  better  never  to  see  you 


228        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

again.  I  didn't  dream  our  paths  would  cross  in 
Batna.    You  didn't  speak  to  me  .  .  ." 

"I  hadn't  a  chance.  You  were  on  one  side  of  the 
square,  I  on  the  other.  A  little  group  of  children 
clustered  round  you." 

"Ah,  those  children !  You  can't  know  how  much 
they  helped  me."  She  caught  the  slight  quavering 
in  the  deep  voice.  "They  used  to  slip  their  tiny 
little  hands  into  mine  and  look  up  at  me  with  those 
brown  expressive  eyes  full  of  trust  and  innocence 
,  .  .  and  I  used  to  remember  .  .  .  that  once  ...  I 
too  was  a  child  as  innocent  of  wrong  as  they.  It 
was  just  a  bit  more  fire  added  to  the  blaze  you 
started,  and  it  helped  to  burn  up  a  lot  of  the  bad 
in  me." 

"I'm  ever  so  glad,'*  she  said  buoyantly.  "It  is 
splendid  to  see  you  like  this.  I  suppose  you've 
come  to  El  Bouira  to  work  for  Mr.  Snitch?" 

"That's  it.  One  lift-up  seems  to  bring  about 
another.  I've  been  with  him  all  the  morning  at 
the  club-house,  discussing  what  he  wants  me  to 
do.  I  am  truly  grateful  to  you  for  your  part  in 
this  new  stroke  of  good  fortune." 

"It  is  nothing  really,"  she  assured  him.  "Mr. 
Snitch  wanted  some  one,  and  immediately  I  thought 
of  you.  I  didn't  like  the  idea  of  your  spending 
your  days  as  an  ill-paid  Batna  camel-driver." 

He  glanced  at  her  inquiringly. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  ill-paid?" 

Saada  tried  to  brazen  the  matter  out,  but  under 
the  quiet,  searching  glance  her  explanation  failed. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  229 

"I — I  sent  Yakoub  to  inquire,"  she  admitted. 
"I  told  him  to  find  out  what  you  were  doing — how 
you  were  living — and  whether  you  were  in  need 
of  anything." 

"Why?"     His  manner  was  insistent. 

"Because  you  were  my  friend,  and  also,  I  admit 
...  I  felt  curious.  You  said  something  in  that 
letter  which  I  felt  wasn't  true.  I  wanted  to  satisfy 
myself.  And  I  did,  too.  I  discovered  you  hadn't 
slipped  back  ,  .  .  and  when  the  chance  to  work 
for  Mr.  Snitch  came,  I  took  the  responsibility  of 
recommending  you.     Are  you  sorry?" 

"Sorry!  Of  course  I'm  not  sorry.  I'm  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world.  It  does  help  one 
tremendously,  you  know,  to  feel  there  are  people 
willing  to  hold  out  a  hand  to  one  who  has  been 
right  down.  I  believe  the  worst  punishment  of 
all  is  the  way  in  which  men  and  women  ignore 
the  backsliders  .  .  .  and  the  conviction  grows 
that  neither  God  nor  man  cares  what  becomes  of 
them.     That  is  how  I  felt  until  you  came." 

She  nodded  understandingly,  and  they  swung 
briskly  up  the  slow  rise  together. 

"You  are  going  to  forget  all  about  the  dreadful 
past,  Mr.  Williams,"  she  said,  cloaking  her  own 
misery  beneath  the  enthusiasm  she  was  experi- 
encing over  his  success.  "The  future  is  waiting 
with  wide-open  arms.  You  will  go  forward  from 
one  triumph  to  another  until  the  lost  position  is 
quite  regained.     Isn't  that  true?" 

"That  is  what  I  shall  strive  for,  Mrs.  Kailsford. 


230        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

But  sometimes  I  feel  just  a  little  afraid.  I  realize 
...  I  have  been  able  to  stand  firm  because  of  the 
stimulus  you  gave  me.  But  supposing,  in  time, 
the  effect  should  wear  off,  and  the  old  temptations 
return?  You  will  probably  pass  out  of  my  life 
as  suddenly  as  you  came  into  it;  then  I  shall  feel 
so  very  much  alone." 

Saada  eyed  him  with  manifest  disapproval. 

"You  shouldn't  put  any  reliance  on  me.  Strength 
to  fight  and  endure  must  come  from  within.  Fate 
brought  us  together  that  day;  I  did  less  for  you 
than  you  did  for  me.  By  chance,  or  rather  the 
slenderest  of  consequences,  we  meet  again,  here  in 
El  Bouira :  you  will  go  your  way  and  I  mine.  But 
because  of  that,  you  mustn't  lose  the  finer  edge 
of  courage." 

His  chin  drooped  to  his  chest;  he  looked  down, 
ashamed  and  disconsolate,  yet  so  penitent  that  her 
heart  was  touched. 

"I  havQ  still  to  make  you  understand  all  that 
your  friendship  meant  to  me,"  Williams  went  on 
earnestly.  "You  found  me  a  vile,  unclean  thing, 
the  scorn  and  derision  of  my  own  as  well  as  your 
people.  You  stretched  out  the  hand  of  a  woman, 
pure  and  innocent,  but  so  strong  that  it  led  me  to 
find  my  own  soul.  I  have  gone  on  .  .  .  God  knows 
how  desperate  and  bitter  the  fight  has  been.  So 
long  as  you  were  in  North  Africa  I  felt  you  were 
not  so  far  away :  I  could  think  of  you,  in  the  dark 
hours,  as  being  very,  very  near.  But  the  time  will 
come  when  you  will  go  back  to  England  with  your 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  231 

husband — which  reminds  me,  I've  talked  so  much 
about  myself  I  haven't  even  congratulated  you  on 
your  marriage.  Please  forgive  my  thoughtless- 
ness." 

"You  sent  a  telegram  of  good  wishes.  We  were 
ever  so  pleased  to  get  it.  How  did  you  get  to 
hear  about  the  wedding?" 

For  a  moment  Williams  looked  confused.  Then 
he  admitted, 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  confess  to  being  very  inquisi- 
tive. Traders  pass  constantly  between  Batna  and 
El  Bouira.  They  bring  news.  I  wanted  to  hear 
about  you  .  .  .  what  you  were  doing,  and  all  the 
rest.  I  felt  most  ashamed  at  not  being  able  'to  send 
you  a  wedding-gift." 

"Of  course  we  should  have  felt  angry  if  you  had 
spent  any  of  your  hard-earned  money." 

"I  had  n'one,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "By  the 
time  I  had  paid  for  my  lodgings  and  sufl&cient 
food  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  I  didn't  possess 
a  penny  in  the  world.  Your  good  friend,  Mr. 
Snitch,  sent  the  money  to  buy  these  clothes. 
Strange,  isn't  it,  how  the  wheel  goes  round?  .  .  . 
a  big-hearted  son  of  the  people  clothing  a  fellow 
who  once  prided  himself  on  being  a  gentleman. 
We  have  to  learn  the  lesson  sooner  or  later  that  all 
are  men— -one  just  as  good  as  another.  I  know, 
ten  years  ago,  in  my  ignorance,  I  should  have  looked 
down  on  a  man  like  Snitch.  Today  I'm  proud  to 
be  able  to  look  up  to  him.  However,  enough  of 
myself.     Shall  I  find  Mr.  Railsford  in  the  town? 


232        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

I  want  to  thank  him  for  all  he  tried  to  do  for  me 
in  Constantine." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  quietly,  "but  I'm  afraid 
you  won't  be  able  to  see  him.  He  went  back  to 
England  last  week." 

Williams  stared. 

"What!     Gone  away  .  .  .  without  you?" 

"Yes.  His  mother  was  taken  ill.  Naturally, 
his  duty  was  to  go  to  her." 

"Of  course.  But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  he 
would  leave  you.     Which  day  did  he  leave?" 

"On  our  wedding-day — an  hour  after  we  were 
married." 

"Lord !  that  must  have  wanted  some  pluck.  I'm 
afraid  I  could  have  never  have  done  it.  If  you  were 
my  wife  I  should  never  have  been  content  to  let  you 
out  of  my  sight  .  .  .  which  only  shows  how  selfish 
some  men  can  be  where  a  woman  is  concerned." 

"I  certainly  think  his  duty  was  to  consider  his 
mother,"  she  said  bravely.  "A  wife  has  so  much 
of  life  before  her.  His  mother's  may  be  almost 
done." 

"Yes,  there's  something  in  that,"  he  admitted 
thoughtfully.  "All  the  same,  I  can't  quite  under- 
stand. I  should  have  wanted  to  take  you — to  be 
with  me  through  the  anxious  time.  I  suppose  you 
are  right.  And  yet  he  must  know  how  lonely  you 
will  be." 

"I  still  have  my  father.  I  can  never  be  lonely 
as  long  as  we  are  together." 

Williams  was  puzzled.     It  seemed  such  a  strange 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  233 

proceeding  for  a  man  to  go  off  on  his  wedding-day 
leaving  his  young  and  beautiful  wife  alone,  when  he 
might  easily  have  taken  her  with  him. 

"Of  course  you've  no  notion  how  long  he  will  be 
gone?" 

"None  at  all.  The  journey  takes  ten  days  at 
least  .  .  .  and  then  it  may  be  some  time  before 
Mrs.  Eailsford  recovers.  Till  then  my  father  and  I 
will  remain  at  the  Transatlantique  Hotel.  It  is 
very  comfortable,  and  everything  possible  is  done 
•to  make  our  stay  enjoyable.  You'll  come  to  see 
us?" 

He  looked  pleased. 

"I  should  love  to.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr. 
Snitch  was  talking  about  fixing  me  up  there. 
He  won't  hear  of  going  to  any  hDtel  but  a  Trans- 
atlantique .  .  .  says  they  have  the  finest  chain  of 
hotels  in  North  Africa,  especially  at  Bone  and 
Biskra;  so  I  expect  to  be  there  with  him  until  we 
start  off  next  week  for  Beni  El  Ourit." 

The  white  building,  of  fairy-like  beauty  under 
its  mantling  of  purple  bougainvillea  and  pink 
cluster-roses,  stood  out  sharp  and  clear,  as  though 
carved  in  purest  ivory,  at  the  end  of  the  road. 

Saada  was  searching  the  shady  gardens  for  a 
glimpse  of  her  father. 

"I  feel  sure  you  will  find  the  work  congenial," 
she  said  reflectively. 

The  man  smiled. 

"You  couldn't  have  found  anything  to  suit  me 
better.     I   love   Greek   and   Roman   art  .  .  .  and 


234        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

gossip  has  it  that  Mr.  Snitch  has  tumbled  on  a 
perfect  storehouse  of  wonderful  things — bronzes, 
rare  statuary,  choice  marble,  fountains,  doorways, 
and  carved  pillars  looted  from  Carthage  centuries 
ago.  I  mean  to  drag  them  all  into  the  light  of  day, 
and  salve  the  best  for  him.  You  can't  imagine 
what  a  labour  of  love  the  work  will  be." 

The  deep  note  of  the  luncheon-hour  gong  boomed 
across  the  stillness.     Saada  quickened  step. 

"If  Mr.  Snitch  dosen't  claim  you,  I  want  you  to 
lunch  with  us,"  she  said  briskly;  then  paused  to 
scan  the  gardens,  drowsy  in  the  heat  of  the  coming 
afternoon.  "My  father  generally  takes  a  stroll  at 
this  hour.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  meet  him 
before  we  go  in.  Ah,  there  he  is — at  the  end  of  the 
little  citron  grove,  talking  to  Yakoub." 

Williams  shaded  his  eyes  and  took  in  the  bent 
figure  of  the  sheikh  in  his  red  turban  and  long 
white  ghandourah. 

"I  had  quite  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  you 
are  Arab,"  he  said.  "I  always  think  of  you  as  a 
typically  English  girl.  Strange,  isn't  it?  I  won- 
der why." 

Saada  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  sure  I  cbuldn't  tell  you.  Perhaps  because 
I've  stayed  so  long  in  England.  However,  come 
along,  and  let  me  introduce  you." 

Saada  could  hardly  have  explained  why  she  took 
such  pains  to  keep  the  secret  of  her  birth  from 
this  big,  open-hearted  Englishman,  unless  it  was 
that  deep  down  in  her  heart  lurked  the  conviction 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  235 

that  Mrs.  Railsford's  callous  treatment  of  her  was 
solely  dictated  by  the  supposed  fact  of  her  Arab 
birth.  This  much  she  read  behind  every  word  in 
the  fatal  telegram  which  had  drawn  her  husband 
from  his  sworn  allegiance. 

The  remembrance  swept  a  surge  of  anger  into 
her  cheeks.  Since  then  she  had  resolved  that  those 
who  professed  friendship  should  stand  by  her  for 
herself  alon«.  It  was  the  only  way  to  tell  the  dross 
from  the  gold.     She  went  forward. 

"Father,  dear,  I  wish  to  present  to  you  Mr. 
Williams,  a  very  great  friend  of  mine.  You  re- 
member, don't  you  .  .  .  my  telling  you  how  he 
came  to  my  aid  in  Constantine?" 

The  old  man  bowed. 

"I  am  honoured  to  meet  you*,  Mr.  Williams,"  he 
said,  kissing  his  fingers  as  the  other  released  them 
after  a  hearty  grip.  "Your  name  is  often  on 
Saada's  lips.  In  our  hearts  it  will  always  be  en- 
shrined. An  Arab,  you  know,  sir,  never  forgets  a 
service  rendered  either  to  himself  or  to  his  house." 

Williams  blushed  like  an  over-conscious  school- 
boy. 

"It  was  nothing,  I  assure  you*.  She  got  off  the 
track  into  the  dangero-us  quarter  of  the  town.  I 
merely  happened  to  know  the  best  way  out." 

"I  have  asked  Mr.  Williams  to  lunch  with  us,  if 
Mr.  Snitch  does  not  claim  him,"  Saada  interposed. 

The  sheikh  bowed. 

"Indeed,  we  are  doubly  honoured  in  welcoming 
to  our  table  a  friend  of  the  good  Mr.  Snitch.    Of 


236        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

all  the  English  people  we  have  ever  met,  he  is  the 
most  delightful." 

Saada  took  the  sheikh's  arm. 

"Father,  Mr.  Williams  is  going  to  work  for  Mr. 
Snitch.  He  has  appointed  him  to  cross  the  desert 
to  the  palace  he  has  bought,  and  to  superintend  the 
excavations  at  the  buried  Roman  city  beyond  the 
oasis  of  Kheiroun.  Don't  you  think  he  will  have  a 
most  interesting  experience?" 

They  walked  up  the  sanded  path  together. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  Williams  interjected.  "And 
I  owe  my  good  fortune  entirely  to  your  dlaughter, 
sheikh." 

The  sheikh  glanced  across  at  Saada.  He  could 
not  understand  why,  again  and  again,  since  the 
night  when  he  revealed  the  secret  of  her  birth,  she 
had  refused  to  allow  a  living  soul  to  share  it  As 
she  made  no  sign,  he  took  the  cue,  and  said  simply, 

"Neither  I  nor  my  daughter  will  ever  forget  the 
service  you  have  rendered  us.  Ah,  here  comes  a 
messenger  !'* 

Diminutive  Abdul,  the  Nubian  boy,  hurried  for- 
ward and  salaamed  before  the  tall  Englishman. 

"Mos'  noble  highbrow,"  he  said  in  a  high-pitched, 
sing-song  voice  with  a  pronounced  American  accent 
only  recently  acquired  from  a  party  of  delightful 
New  Yorkers  who  had  taken  a  deep  pleasure  in 
encouraging  it.  "The  great  rich  Englishman — 
General  Vis-count  Lor'  Snitch,  him  leave  messages 
to  say  if  Mistah  W^illyum  come,  I  guess  he  gottum 
kick  his  'eels  in  dis  yah  place  till  three  o'clock. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  237 

Genelmans,  Abdul  put  it  over  on  you  orl  correck." 

Williams  laughed  and  tossed  the  lad  a  coin. 

"Thank  you.  And  that  means,"  turning  to 
Saada,  very  much  amused  by  the  little  fellow's 
quaintness,  "I  am  free  to  lunch  with  you." 

The  sheikh  thought  him  very  charming — so  very 
unlike,  so  much  more  friendly  and  approachable 
than  Saada's  husband.  He  recalled  a  score  of 
occasions  when  Railsford  had  made  him  conscious 
of  the  barrier  that  the  white  men  always  raise  be- 
tween themselves  and  the  people  of  his  race.  Will- 
ia-ms,  apparently,  had  no  such  feelings;  he  hon- 
oured his  host  by  insisting  that  the  conversation  be 
carried  on  entirely  in  Arabic.  For  Saada  the  hour 
passed  happily  .  .  .  more  happily  than  she  had 
known  since  coming  to  El  Bouira.  After  Lance's 
departure  scarcely  a  soul,  expect  Theodore  Snitch 
and  his  daughter,  had  spoken  either  to  herself  or  to 
the  sheikh. 

She  treasured  the  memory  of  that  little  gathering 
long  after  Williams  had  gone.  The  following 
morning  he  left  with  his  employer  and  Hetty 
Snitch,  the  whole  party  mounted  on  camels.  For 
a  fortnight  nothing  was  heard  of  them.  Then  one 
Saturday  morning,  while  she  was  arranging  fresh 
flowers  in  her  bedroom,  word  came  up  that  a 
gentleman  was  waiting  in  the  vestibule  to  see  her. 
She  went  down  and  saw  John  Williams  .  .  .  not 
the  neatly-dressed  man  who  had  stopped  her  in  the 
street  of  El  Bouira,  but  a  huge,  loose4imbed  fellow 
in  riding  breeches,  a  much-soiled  shirt  open  at  the 


238        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

throat,  and  uncovered  arms  that  rippled  where  the 
sunlight  played  on  sinew  and  muscle. 

He  looked  very  splendid,  if  very  untidy,  as  he 
stood  in  the  open  doorway,  a  wide-brimmed  hat 
swinging  in  his  right  hand.  For  the  first  time 
Saada  was  conscious  of  the  immense  strength  in 
his  great  gaunt  frame. 

"I'm  not  at  all  presentable,  Mrs.  Railsford,"  he 
said,  striding  briskly  towards  her.  "You  must 
really  forgive  my  appearance,  but  I  rode  straight 
from  my  work  through  the  night  to  bring  a  note 
of  invitation  from  Theodore  Snitch.  He  wants 
you  to  join  him  and  Miss  Hetty  to  see  the  wonder- 
ful excavations  we  have  made." 

Saada's  face  lit  up. 

"I  should  just  love  to  come.  How  have  you 
been  getting  on?" 

He  avoided  the  personal  note  in  her  inquiry. 

"Oh,  magnificently!  We  made  some  amazing 
discoveries.  Tomorrow  early  we  are  opening  a 
chamber  which  has  been  closed  for  more  than  two 
thousand  years.  We  can  just  see  into  it  .  .  . 
crammed  with  Greek  art  treasures  brought  from 
Athens  in  a  Roman  ship  .  .  .  ornaments,  bronzes, 
tazzas,  marble  figures,  urns  and  vases.  Nothing 
would  satisfy  the  boss  but  that  I  fetched  you." 

"I  had  better  see  my  father  first,"  she  said.  "I 
should  like  him  to  come  too,  but  I'm  afraid  at  his 
time  of  life  the  journey  would  be  rather  too  much. 
What  do  you  think?' 

"I'm  sure  it  would.     Travelling  over  leagues  of 


THE  MAN  WHO  WON  239 

sand,  even  on  a  good  horse,  is  rather  exhausting. 
Mr.  Snitch  commissioned  me  to  get  the  best  mare  in 
El  Bouira  for  you.  How  soon  could  you  be 
ready?" 

"Almost  at  once,"  she  replied.  "Father  is  up- 
stairs. He'll  be  only  too  pleased  for  me  to  go. 
The  post  is  Just  being  brought  up.  I  shall  wait  to 
see  if  there  are  any  letters." 

Williams  backed  to  the  door. 

"Very  well.  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  with 
the  mare  bridled  and  saddled.  We  can  make  Beni 
El  Ourit  in  ten  hours,  now  that  the  old  trackway 
has  been  cleared." 

He  ran  lightly  down  the  steps  and  swung  out 
into  the  sunshine — a  fine  figure  in  his  rough 
clothes.  Saada's  glance  followed  him  till  the  trees 
hid  him;  then  she  turned  as  Abdul  shuffled  into 
the  vestibule,  calling  at  the  top  of  his  shrill  voice, 

"Numbah  271  Railsford!  Numbah  271.  Bech- 
your-life,  lady,  that's  for  yew." 

He  held  out  an  envelope  bearing  Lance's  familiar 
handwriting.  A  deadly  coldness  crept  over  her  as 
she  sought  the  silence  of  her  room.  The  covering 
dropped  to  the  floor ;  she  sank  down  in  the  nearest 
chair  and  tried  to  steel  herself  to  read  in  sequence 
each  line  of  the  letter.  But  her  eyes  wandered 
here  and  there,  picking  up  only  detached  sentences 
that  crushed  the  last  shred  of  hope  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SEPARATION 

**I  feel  that  I  alone  am  to  blame,"  Lance  had  written. 
**Time  and  again  you  did  your  utmost  to  stay  me  on  a 
course  which  I  should  have  known  could  only  end  in 
disaster.  But  I  was  blind.  I  wrongly  imagined  that 
love — such  love  as  I  deceived  myself  into  thinking  I 
had  for  you — would  be  strong  enough  to  sweep  all  bar- 
riers of  creed  and  colour  away." 

THE  light  of  a  deep  scorn  blazed  in  Saada's 
eyes  as  she  read  the  lying  reference  to  her 
religious  belief.  Always  Lance  had 
known  she  was  Christian,  and  that  of  her  own 
desire  she  had  embraced  the  faith  of  the  Cross. 
She  turned  the  closely-written  page. 

"Of  coiurse,  the  inevitable  reaction  came  as  soon  as  I 
was  free  of  Africa.  I  shook  off  the  shackles  which  held 
me  enchained — a  prisoner  remote  from  my  own  fellows. 
You  did  not  dream — I  wish  to  God  I  had  possessed  the 
courage  to  tell  you — all  that  I  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
my  own  people  the  last  few  weeks  before  our  marriage. 
Both  you  and  I  were  objects  of  pity  and  derision.  I 
could  not  stand  that  here  in  England  .  .  .  either  to  see 
you  spurned  and  set  aside  as  of  no  account,  or  I  myself 
to  endure  the  compassion  of  those  among  whom  I 
moved.     I  have  therefore  decided,  after  mature  consider- 

240 


SEPARATION  241 

ation,  never  to  return  to  El  Bouira.  I  must  live  my  life, 
even  as  you  must  live  yours  .  .  .  alone:  at  least,  not 
quite  alone,  for  you  have  your  father,  even  as  I  have  my 
mother. 

' '  I  would  ask  you,  out  of  the  greatness  of  your  heart, 
and  out  of  sympathy  for  me,  to  forgive  the  pain  which  a 
letter  such  as  this  must  bring.  Do  not  think  me  un- 
mindful of  my  responsibilities  or  of  the  misery  which  I 
have  caused.  I  shall  carry  them  with  me  all  my  days. 
It  is  better  to  write  this,  to  be  quite  candid  over  a 
matter  which  can  be  settled  only  in  one  way — by  ab- 
solute and  final  separation.  Try  to  think  of  me  as 
kindly  as  you  can,  and 

"Believe  me  to  remain, 

"Always  yours  sorrowfully, 

*' Lance." 

So  she  came  to  the  end  ...  to  the  end  of  her 
married  life  of  less  than  a  day,  and  as  she  stood 
there  wdth  the  sunlight  falling  upon  her  in  the  full 
flush  of  her  perfect  womanhood,  tears  welled  up 
from  the  depths  of  her  eyes  and  coursed  slowly 
down  her  cheeks.  Neither  bitterness  nor  anger 
moved  her  now :  the  fires  of  scorn  had  burnt  out  as 
swiftly  as  they  had  risen  .  .  .  only  the  dull  ache  of 
sorrow  weighed  heavily  upon  her  soul. 

For  a  little  while  she  remained  thus,  the  breeze 
from  the  open  window  fluttering  the  letter  in  her 
nerveless  clasp.  Out  of  the  gloom  her  thoughts 
groped  back  to  the  hour  when  Lance  had  stood 
at  her  side,  giving  his  promise  before  the  altar  of 
God!     The  scene  changed  to  the  long  gay  room 


242        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

downstairs  garlanded  with  flowers  .  .  .  she  saw 
again  the  words  of  his  mother's  message;  they 
burned  in  letters  of  fire  across  the  darkness  of  her 
mind.  For  the  sake  of  money  he  had  sacrificed  her. 
The  knowledge  was  not  new:  only  reawakened  in 
a  more  definite  form. 

She  forced  a  weary,  self-condemning  smile  at 
her  own  weakness  now  that  the  big  shock  had  come 
.  .  .  and  she  tried  to  think  of  John  Williams,  and 
how,  were  the  positions  reversed,  he  would  have 
borne  himself  under  it.  He  had  gone  down  .  .  . 
but  manlike,  having  groped  blindly  through  the 
darkness,  he  had  at  last  fought  his  way  back  to 
light.  She,  too,  must  do  the  same.  And  always 
she  would  have  his  sympathy  and  her  father's  love. 

The  point  in  her  reflection  brought  her  face  to 
face  with  a  fresh  difficulty — how  to  break  the  news 
to  the  sheikh.  So  far  as  he  was  aware,  Lance  was 
in  England  merely  to  be  near  his  sick  mother. 
His  absence  had  not  distressed  him  at  all.  In 
time  the  Englishman  would  return  to  take  up  the 
threads  of  life  where  misfortune  had  forced  him  to 
lay  them  down. 

Folding  the  letter  into  her  dress,  Saada  dried  her 
tears  and  stole  quietly  into  his  room.  She  be- 
trayed no  emotion  as  she  spoke  of  Theodore 
Snitch's  invitation. 

"Of  course  go,  child,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
gentle  voice,  as  he  removed  his  spectacles,  and 
getting  down  the  copy  of  the  Koran  he  was  study- 
ing, he  took  her  brown,  softly-rounded  arm  and 


SEPAKATION  243 

stroked  it  affectionately.  "The  little  change  will 
do  you  good;  and  I  know  that  Mr.  Williams  will 
take  care  of  you." 

"I  am  sure  he  will,"  she  said  gravely.  "I  shall 
be  quite  all  right  with  him." 

The  old  man  looked  up  suddenly. 

"I  heard  Abdul  calling  a  little  while  since.  I 
suppose  the  mail  is  in.  Will  you  not  be  hearing 
from  your  husband?" 

Saada's  hand  went  to  her  cheek.  She  longed 
to  share  with  some  one  the  sorrow  that  lay  so  heav- 
ily upon  her.  Yet  still  further  to  bring  trouble  to 
the  last  days  of  this  frail  old  man  was  a  prospect 
against  which  every  fibre  of  her  being  revolted. 
She  knew  she  was  but  temporizing  with  a  situation 
that  sooner  or  later  must  be  faced.  She  wanted 
time  to  realize  more  fully  and  to  plan  how  best  to 
meet  the  changed  conditions  under  which  hence- 
forward she  would  have  to  live. 

"I  hardly  expect  to  get  another  letter  from  him 
so  soon,"  she  replied,  colouring.  "You  forget 
...  I  heard  from  him  when  he  left  Marseille. 
Good-bye,  dear,"  bending  to  kiss  the  lined  face. 
"Tell  Yakoub  to  look  after  you  while  I  am  gone. 
I  shall  be  back  some  time  on  Monday." 

"Some  time  on  Monday,"  the  sheikh  repeated, 
reaching  for  his  gold-mounted  cane,  and  following 
slowly  to  the  door.  "The  blessing  of  the  Most 
High  be  upon  you,  and  may  He  bring  you  safely 
home  again." 

He  kissed  her  on  each  cheek  and  laid  her  hand 


244        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

upon  his  breast ;  gave  her  his  blessing  and  watched 
with  his  faded  eyes  full  of  love  till  the  turn  in  the 
stairs  hid  her  from  sight. 

Saada  went  back  to  the  bedroom  to  prepare  for 
the  long  ride,  strangely  calm  and  self-possessed. 
The  first  wave  of  horror  had  passed  on,  leaving  be- 
hind a  numbness  of  body  and  mind.  The  climax 
had  not  been  altogether  unexpected ;  ever  since  the 
discovery  of  her  husband's  duplicity  she  had 
waited,  half  anticipating  the  worst.  The  reading 
of  the  telegram,  never  intended  for  her  sight,  which 
had  at  the  time  been  such  a  dreadful  blow — now 
proved  to  be  her  best  ally.  The  forewarning  en- 
abled her  to  bear  with  composure  a  shock  which 
must  have  otherwise  swept  both  hope  and  cour- 
age away. 

She  dressed  in  a  neat  brown  riding  habit  and 
straight-brimmed  hat,  and  went  down.  She  looked 
very  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  waiting  on  the 
hotel  verandah.  Yet,  watching  her  narrowly  as 
she  crossed  the  vestibule,  a  short  riding-crop 
swinging  in  her  left  hand,  he  thought  the  last  few 
minutes  had  wrought  a  startling  change.  Black 
shadows  had  gathered  under  the  long  lashes  that 
lay  like  softest  silk  upon  the  bloom  of  her  cheek; 
the  sweet  mouth,  which  but  a  few  moments  before 
had  shown  a  smile,  was  set  in  a  thin,  purposeful 
line;  the  very  carriage  of  the  straight  slim  form 
was  different. 

"You  look  very  grim  and  businesslike,  Mrs. 
Railsford,"   he   said   laughingly,   picking   up  her 


SEPARATION  245 

small  handcase.  ^TTou're  not  nervous,  I  hope,  of 
facing  the  perils  of  the  desert  in  such  restricted 
numbers?" 

Saada  made  a  desperate  effort  to  throw  off  the 
heavy  depression,  and  her  lips  twisted  into  a  smile. 

"Good  gracious,  no.  I  should  feel  safe  any- 
where with  you.  Besides,  the  natives  hereabouts 
are  quite  friendly.  What  a  lovely  horse!  Is  it 
your  choice?" 

She  passed  behind  him  and  patted  the  glossy 
arched  neck  of  the  mare. 

"Especially  for  you.  She  is  pure-bred  and  re- 
liable.    Are  we  quite  ready?" 

"Quite,"  she  answered,  slipping  one  foot  into  the 
stirrup  and  landing  lightly  in  the  saddle.  "I  feel 
I  want  to  get  away  from  El  Bouira  .  .  .  for  a 
time.  The  most  perfect  surroundings  in  the  world 
call  for  a  change  after  a  while,  don't  you  think? 
In  the  two  months  we  have  been  here  .  .  .  apart 
from  visits  to  the  villa,  I  have  never  once  been  out- 
side the  town.  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to 
get  away.  But,"  as  the  horses  broke  into  a  sharp 
canter  that  carried  them  through  the  Bab  Mokhara 
gate  towards  the  fringe  of  the  desert,  "why  are  you 
so  quiet?" 

"I  am  wondering  what  has  happened  to  you — > 
since  I  left  you  in  the  hotel  half  an  hour  ago." 

"What  has  happened  to  me?  Whatever  do  you 
mean?"  Saada  asked  with  an  assumed  lightness 
which  failed  altogether  to  deceive  him.  "I'm  just 
the  same.    Do  I  look  any  different?" 


246       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"You  are  different,"  Williams  said  bluntly. 
"Under  the  sunburn  your  face  is  pale  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  your  lips  are  trembling.  I  believe,  too, 
you've  been  crying.  What's  the  matter?  Do  tell 
me — please." 

At  last  the  brave  efifort  she  had  made  so  long  was 
beginning  to  fail.  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat; 
she  swiftly  averted  her  face  and  said  in  a  shaky 
•whisper,  ^ 

"Don't  ask  me  now.  I  couldn't  tell  you.  I  shall 
be  all  right  in  a  little  while.  Please  don't  worry 
about  me." 

"Something  has  upset  you?" 

She  pursed  her  lips,  but  made  no  other  sign ;  only 
the  eyes  that  looked  straight  ahead  over  the  im- 
mense sweep  of  red-gold  sand  were  moist  with  tears. 

"I  won't  bother  you  now — but  later  on  you  will 
tell  me,"  he  said  with  sudden  decision.  "It's  easier 
for  two  to  carry  a  trouble  than  to  bear  it  alone. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  presumptuous,  but  I  hate  to 
see  you  sad." 

"I'm  not  sad  really.  Only  .  .  .  something  .  .  , 
upset  me.    I  didn't  much  like  leaving  my  father." 

Williams  looked  surprised. 

"He  didn't  mind  your  coming  with  me.  Perhaps 
I  should  have  consulted  him  first;  only  I  thought, 
as  you  were  now  married " 

"Of  course  it  was  quite  right  to  ask  me.  My 
father  raised  no  objection,  and  has  entire  confidence 
in  you.     He  knows  all  about  you." 

"All!"  he  repeated  slowly. 


SEPARATION  247 

"Yes.  I  told  him  .  .  .  the  first  night  he  came 
to  Constantine,  and  ever  since  he  has  wanted  to 
meet  you.  He  takes  the  Arab  view  of  the  matter : 
that  henceforward  my  life  consists  of  three  parts 
— one  of  which  I  owe  to  Allah,  the  second  to  my 
parents,  and  the  third  to  you.  Consequently  he 
isn't  at  all  likely  to  disapprove  of  my  accompany- 
ing you  on  a  day's  journey  across  the  desert." 

Williams  emitted  a  short  laugh. 

"Both  you  and  your  father  take  too  serious  a 
view  of  a  very  slight  service.  Frankly,  I'm  not 
entitled  to  a  grain  of  gratitude  from  either.  At 
the  time  I  wasn't  even  master  of  my  own  actions, 
let  alone  of  my  will.  Nothing  but  the  primitive 
instinct  to  go  to  the  aid  of  a  woman  in  distress, 
prompted  me.  I  was  hopelessly  intoxicated  .  .  . 
until  something  you  said  brought  me  to  my  senses." 

Saada  was  glad  the  conversation  was  drifting 
away  from  her. 

"All  that  belongs  to  the  past,"  she  said.  "You 
know  my  feelings  in  the  matter — that  always, 
always,  I  shall  feel  I  owe  my  life  to  you.  But 
more  satisfying  still  is  the  knowledge  that'  you 
have  won  out  so  splendidly." 

"A  man  can  do  most  things,  backed  by  a  woman's 
sympathy,"  he  answered  earnestly.  "Neither  re- 
ligion nor  ^the  power  that  in  one  lies'  can  do  quite 
so  much." 

"Sympathy  is  religion,"  she  said  quickly.  "At 
least  it  is  the  basis  of  all  religions  that  count." 

"In  the  sense  that  sympathy  begets  love.    Yes, 


248        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

I  agree.  And  yet  men  and  women  mustn't  think! 
of  one  another  in  terms  of  love  unless  they  are 
either  related  or  engaged  to  be  married.  But  love 
is  often  there  all  the  same  ...  if  you  allow  that 
holding  your  life  is  worthless  unless  every  thought 
and  every  action  are  prompted  by  the  desire  to 
please  others.  That,  to  my  mind,  is  love ;  because 
it  knows  neither  conventions  nor  men-made  laws, 
but  it  is  the  natural  expression  of  the  human  heart." 

"We  are  drifting  to  dangerous  ground,"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  of  light  reproof.  "We  can  care  for 
others  without  love  entering  into  the  matter  at 
all." 

"But  to  care  is  to  love,"  he  insisted.  "Oh,  I  don't 
mind  how  you  hedge  it  around  with  artificial  quali- 
fications .  .  .  the  gratitude  which  burns  in  the 
heart  towards  one's  fellows  is  love,  the  Divine 
Gift  of  God.  Doesn't  it  sound  strange  to  hear 
words  like  that  .  .  .  coming  from  me?" 

"Why  strange?"  she  asked  quietly. 

He  placed  his  wide-brimmed  hat  on  the  high  pom- 
mel of  the  saddle  and  raised  his  glowing  face  to 
the  full  glory  of  the  sun.  An  expression  of  serene 
peace  had  settled  on  him.  Watching  him,  mag- 
nificent of  stature,  sitting  his  horse  like  a  centaur, 
she  marvelled  that  behind  such  imposing  strength 
was  the  simplicity  of  a  child. 

"Because  of  all  human  creatures  I  have  been  the 
most  vile,"  he  said.  "Look  at  me  .  .  .  made  in 
the  image  of  God,  yet  self -defiled.     I  see  myself 


SEPARATION  249 

every  day  as  you  must  have  seen  me  that  night  in 
the  little  garret  of  Constantine  .  .  .  and  I  thank 
Him  for  the  love  that  crept  in  your  heart  to  help 
raise  me  up.  People  who  know  me  now  think  1 
am  a  sad,  lonely  man.  Well,  yes,  sometimes  I  am 
sad,  and  at  times  I  am  tempted  to  feel  lonely  .  .  . 
until  I  remember  what  I  once  was  and  what  I  now 
have  the  chance  to  be.  Then  my  heart  just  tills 
.  .  .  and  I  know  that  life,  through  sunshine  or 
storm,  is  only  one  long  glad  song.  Lord!  I  can 
laugh  and  sing  the  long  day  through  .  .  .  and  re- 
turn thanks  every  hour  for  the  understanding  you 
gave  me." 

Saada  made  no  answer,  her  mind  too  full  for 
words,  and  for  a  long  while  they  rode  in  silence. 
The  world  lay  around  them — a  marvel  of  blue  and 
gold  .  .  .  unflecked  sky  and  gleaming  sand  painted 
with  tawny  marigold  and  blue  borage.  Here  and 
there  traces  of  long-neglected  cultivation  showed 
amongst  the  ruin  of  half-buried  walls  and  broken 
columns;  agaves  reared  their  long  green  heads 
above  the  parched  ground,  and  occasional  carobs, 
dark  as  yews,  threw  welcome  patches  of  length- 
ening shade. 

The  subtle  perfume  that  the  girl  exhaled  mingled 
with  the  scent  of  stray  clusters  of  succamelle  and 
flowering  vetches,  purple,  white,  and  blue,  and 
where  the  scarlet  sainfoin  was  the  thickest  a  lonely 
cluster  of  palms  thrust  their  straight  trunks  out  of 
the  thirsty  sand.     Here  they  sat  down,  and  while 


250        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Williams  hobbled  and  tethered  the  horses,  Saada 
set  out  a  snow-white  cloth  and  spread  upon  it  the 
contents  of  the  picnic  basket. 

"We  must  rest  though  the  noon  or  the  horses  will 
be  knocked  up,"  he  explained,  after  giving  each  a 
drink  of  water  from  one  of  the  skins.  "By  start- 
ing again  at  two  we  shall  make  Beni  El  Ourit  at 
six." 

Saada's  glance  was  wandering  among  the  piles  of 
loose  rubbish  and  heaped-up  stone. 

"At  one  time  there  must  have  been  quite  a  large 
town  here,"  she  remarked,  passing  over  a  handful  of 
sandwiches. 

Williams  stopped  in  the  process  of  munching 
steadily. 

"We  stand  on  the  dust  of  numerous  civiliza- 
tions," he  said,  picking  up  a  number  of  fragments. 
''Look  at  these  .  .  .  dead  bones  of  the  past,  yet 
each  voicing  its  own  sad  story.  The  Romans  came 
and  built  a  grand  city  here  .  .  .  you  can  see  the 
line  of  the  ancient  viaduct  which  stretched  for 
thirty  miles  and  fed  the  proud  legionaries  with 
water  from  El  Bouira.  This  is  Moorish,"  holding 
out  a  specimen  of  zig-zagged  carved  work,  "and 
below,  on  the  face  of  the  slender  column,  you  see 
the  handiwork  of  your  own  people  .  .  .  the  rose 
and  crescent  of  the  sons  of  Islam." 

A  faint,  almost  imperceptible  sigh  drifted  from 
her  slightly-parted  lips  as  she  bent  her  head  over 
the  exquisite  example  of  Moorish  and  Arabic  work- 
manship.    That    reference    to    her    Arab    blood 


SEPAKATION  251 

brought  back  with  startling  reality  the  recollections 
of  the  letter  that  lay  against  her  heart. 

Saada  was  conscious  of  William's  clear  grey  eyes 
watching  her  with  curious  intent;  she  tilted  the 
brim  of  her  hat  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  smoke?" 

He  set  down  the  water-can  and  heaped  up  a  pile 
of  sand  for  her  to  rest  against.  Then  in  a  grave, 
sympathetic  tone  he  said, 

"Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  is  troubling 
you.  All  the  morning  I've  been  conscious  of  it. 
Isn't  there  any  way  in  which  I  can  help  you?" 

A  terrible  loneliness  settled  on  the  girl.  For 
weeks  she  had  fought  the  long  battle  in  the  silence 
of  her  own  thoughts. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much.  I  know  you  mean  to 
be  kind,  but  neither  you  nor  any  one  else  can  help 
me.  We  Arabs,  you  know,  have  a  simple  but  very 
true  saying,  'Sorrow  is  a  house  best  kept  shut  till 
gladness  becomes  a  visitor.' " 

The  man  sat  down,  and  clasping  his  hands  over 
his  hunched-up  knees,  drew  for  a  moment  thought- 
fully at  his  pipe.  The  fragrant  smoke  coiled  above 
his  bared  head  and  drifted  away  in  little  clouds 
under  the  caress  of  the  gentle  wind. 

"On  the  surface,  Mrs.  Railsford,  your  proverb 
looks  sound  enough.  My  own  case,  however,  dis- 
proves its  wisdom.  I  too  had  a  sadness,  more 
burdensome  possibly  than  yours,  because  its  genesis 
was  in  guilt  and  sin.  But  a  visitor  came  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  gloom,  and 


252        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

where  she  stood  a  great  light  shone  into  the  dark 
places.    You  know  ...  I  am  referring  to  you?" 

Saada  shook  her  head. 

"In  that  case,  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  help :  you 
have  not.  Therefore  why  bother  you,  or  any  one, 
with  troubles  that  can't  be  avoided?" 

"If  not  avoided  at  least  they  can  sometimes  be 
shared  .  .  .  and  that  may  mean  only  half  the 
weight.  Won't  you  let  me  come  to  your  aid — even 
as  you  came  to  mine?" 

The  wistful  pleading  touched  her  deeply.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  said  suddenly, 

"I  am  worrying  about  my  father.  There  is  some- 
thing which  he  ought  to  know  .  .  .  must  know 
before  very  long.  Yet  I  am  afraid  of  what  will 
happen,     I  believe  the  shock  will  break  his  heart." 

"Your  father  is  a  man  of  the  world,"  he  ventured 
^sympathetically.  "There  is  surely  nothing  to 
trouble  you  that  he  cannot  understand." 

The  girl  sighed.  Her  whole  nature  was  crying 
silently  for  sympathy,  for  some  one  to  help  her  in 
the  lone  battle  she  had  fought  so  long. 

"You  must  tell  me,"  the  man  went  on,  coming 
closer  and  touching  her  arm  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  "There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  wouldn't 
do  to  help  you.  What  do  you  fear  about  Sheikh 
Medene?" 

"He  is  very  old  and  frail."  Her  tones  were 
tremulous.  "For  a  long  time  he  has  suffered  with 
his  heart.  I'm  afraid  ...  to  tell  him  what  is 
worrying  me — in  case  the  shock  hurts  him.    Per- 


SEPARATION  253 

haps  there  is  a  way  out,  if  only  I  could  see  it. 
Keally — I  ought  to  have  taken  him  into  my  confi- 
dence and  have  asked  his  advice  before  I  left  the 
hotel  this  morning.  When  I  saw  him  in  his  room 
he  looked  so  worn  and  aged  that  my  courage  failed. 
I  wanted  to  come  this  desert  ride  with  you  .  .  . 
to  give  myself  time  to  think — to  decide  what  to  do 
for  the  best." 

He  drew  the  small  hand  warmly  into  his.  The 
very  touch  seemed  to  give  Saada  confidence.  She 
looked  up  into  his  face,  strong  and  encouraging 
yet  full  of  sympathy. 

"You  know  I  will  help  you  .  .  .  that  anything 
you  tell  me  will  never  pass  from  my  lips.  What  is 
your  difficulty?" 

In  a  moment  her  mind  was  made  up.  She  stead- 
ied herself  and  replied, 

"My  husband  has  left  me.  I  dare  not  tell  my 
father.  It  would  break  his  heart.  Oh,"  turning 
to  him  quickly,  "you  don't  think  I've  done  wrong 
to  tell  you?" 

"Wrong?  Of  course  you've  done  no  wrong,  my 
dear  child.  We  seem  to  have  been  fated  to  help 
each  other  over  great  crises.  But  really  ...  I 
don't  understand.  How  has  Mr.  Railsford  left 
you?  You  can't  mean — he  has  gone  away  and 
won't  return?" 

She  did  not  look  at  him  now,  but  cast  her 
troubled  gaze  down  at  the  hot  sand,  in  which  she 
traced  imaginary  figures. 

"He  will  never  return,"  she  said  slowly.     "I  had 


254        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

a  letter  from  him  only  this  morning,  while  you 
were  away  hiring  the  mare.  He  says  quite  defi- 
nitely he  will  never  come  back." 

'•I'm  afraid  you  half  expected  something  of  the 
sort.     It  did  not  come  altogether  as  a  surprise." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  asked  in  a  puzzled 
whisper. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  clung  to  his  lips. 

"I  read  the  story  of  your  unhappiness  in  your 
face — ^your  eyes — the  moment  you  stopped  to  talk 
to  me  in  El  Bouira.  You  were  very  reticent — 
about  your  husband.  You  didn't  even  mention  his 
name  .  .  .  and  that  was  strange  from  a  young 
bride  only  just  married.  I  could  see  something 
was  troubling  you.  Oh,"  his  manner  suddenly  be- 
coming very  gentle,  "I'm  glad  you've  told  me,  be- 
cause at  least  you  will  know  there  is  some  one  who 
sympathizes  and  understands.  You  do  trust  me, 
don't  you?" 

Their  eyes  met  and  in  hers  was  a  look  of  com- 
plete confidence. 

"I  would  trust  you  with  my  life.  I  couldn't 
speak  to  any  one  as  I  have  to  you.  When  you 
^sked  me,  hours  ago,  I  wanted  to  open  my  heart. 
You  were  right  and  I  was  wrong.  It  does  one  good 
to  share  a  sorrow  with  a  friend." 

A  deep,  true  compassion  stirred  him. 

"I  have  lived  and  struggled  so  that  one  day  I 
might  be  worthy  to  be  called  your  friend,"  he  an- 
swered simply.  "No  greater  reward  could  be  given 
to  any  man.     Come,  now,"  dropping  into  the  soft 


SEPAKATION  255 

sand  at  her  feet  and  looking  up  into  her  troubled 
face,  "we  will  face  this  together,  and  you  will  try 
to  be  brave  and  strong,  even  as  I  tried  when  you 
came  to  my  rescua.  Why  has  Railsford  treated 
you  like  this?" 

'^I  believe  he  regretted  his  engagement  to  me 
some  time  before  our  marriage.  He  was  afraid  of 
the  consequences  of  having  an  Arab  girl  as  his 
wife." 

Williams  smothered  an  oath. 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  fortune  didn't  he  have 
the  courage  to  say  so  before?  The  man's  a  cur! 
Forgive  my  speaking  like  this  about  your  husband. 
He  knew  you  were  of  native  blood :  he  took  you  for 
yourself  alone  .  .  .  because  he  loved  you." 

"Or  thought  he  loved  me,"  she  interposed  iron- 
ically. "So  many  men  make  that  mistake  and 
haven't  the  courage  to  draw  back  while  there  is 
time.  More  than  once  I  half  suspected  he  might 
regret,  and  I  gave  him  the  chance.  But  always  he 
assured  me  his  love  was  strong  enough  to  stand  the 
test.  Perhaps  I  was  to  blame  more  than  he — for 
going  on.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  a  union  be- 
tween a  white  man  and  an  Arab  girl  is  foredoomed 
to  disaster." 

Williams  set  his  hands  behind  him  and  the 
clenched  knuckles  sank  deep  into  the  yielding  dust 
as  his  body  straightened.  She  caught  the  flash  of 
his  grey  eyes  and  the  scornful  set  of  his  mouth. 

"No !  No,  a  thousand  times,  no !  It  isn't  true. 
The  man  who  really  cares  for  a  woman  gives  him- 


256        A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

self,  body  and  soul.  He  isn't  affected  by  race, 
creed,  or  colour.  He  loves  her  for  herself  alone 
.  .  .  because  she  is  all  in  all  to  him  .  .  .  because 
no  one  else  can  find  a  place  in  his  heart.  God 
made  them  both  .  .  .  and  he  will  admit  no  such 
distinctions.  I  speak  as  I  feel :  and  I  do  not  think 
I  am  wrong.     His  duty  was  to  stand  by  you." 

She  nodded. 

"At  least  over  this  I'm  glad  Lance  had  the  cour- 
age of  his  opinions.  For  myself,  I  am  beyond  car- 
ing very  much.  There  comes  a  time  when  a  woman 
feels  her  heart  is  dead.  No  further  hurt  can  come 
— to  wound  me  more  deeply.  But  I  can  still  feel 
for  my  father." 

"Of  course  you  must  tell  him." 

"I  know,"  she  admitted.  "The  secret  can't  be 
kept  much  longer.  You  know  what  it  is  when 
one  is  faced  with  a  great  difflculty  .  .  .  the  temp- 
tation to  drive  off  the  evil  hour.  In  a  little  while 
he  will  wonder  why  Lance  doesn't  return.  Then 
I  shall  have  to  tell  him." 

"You  must  try  not  to  take  it  too  deeply  to  heart. 
At  least  you  are  better  off  than  being  held  for  life 
to  a  man  for  whom  you  have  lost  respect.  Love 
then  would  be  out  of  the  question." 

"I  no  longer  care  for  him,"  she  said  quietly. 
"He  has  killed  all  the  love  I  ever  had.  It  went 
.  .  .  when  he  went  ...  in  the  first  hour  of  our 
married  life.  No  matter  what  happens  now,  I 
never  want  to  see  him  again." 

"You  must  try  not  to  be  bitter,"  he  pleaded. 


SEPARATION  257 

"Perhaps  in  some  wonderful  way,  which  at  present 
you  can't  see,  everything  will  come  right.  Men  do 
very  foolish  things — and  live  to  repent.  It  may  be 
so  with  your  husband." 

Saada  looked  as  though  she  were  pondering 
very  deeply.     In  a  little  while  she  broke  the  silence. 

"I  have  tried  to  make  every  allowance  for  pecul- 
iar circumstances;  he  was  always  very  rigidly 
brought  up  on  the  'pride  of  race'  principle — and  his 
mother,  I  know,  has  all  along  been  against  our 
engagement  and  marriage.  There  are  some  things, 
though,  which  it  would  be  unwise  to  forget.  I 
might  forgive,  because  at  times  a  woman  can  find  it 
in  her  heart  to  forgive  anything.  But  to  ignore 
the  past  as  though  nothing  had  ever  happened — to 
try  to  join  up  the  broken  threads  .  .  .  no!" — shak- 
ing her  head  definitely — "I  could  not  do  that. 
Life  would  never  be  the  same.  I  should  always 
have  the  feeling  that  at  the  first  breath  of  trouble 
he  would  leave  me  to  my  fate." 

Saada  showed  neither  bitterness  nor  anger  .  .  . 
only  an  effable  sadness  which  was  no  indication  of 
weakness,  because  her  eyes  were  aflame  with  resolu- 
tion. 

"I  could  have  forgiven  him  so  much  more  easily 
had  he  found  a  viewpoint  and  stuck  to  it,"  she  con- 
tinued. "He  was  entitled  to  hold  his  opinions 
about  the  wisdom  of  marrying  a  coloured  girl.  A 
good  many  friends,  I  believe,  tried  to  influence  him 
directly  he  came  to  El  Bouira.  Still  he  went  on, 
either  for  fear  of  hurting  me  or  because  he  really 


258       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

had  some  sort  of  affection.  Then  money  came 
.  .  .  and  that  changed  everything.'* 

"Ah !  I  didn't  know  that.  Did  some  one  leave 
him  a  legacy?" 

"A  very  large  fortune.  A  rich  uncle  died,  leav- 
ing him  one  of  the  largest  estates  in  England.  I 
suppose  he  didn't  much  relish  the  notion  of  intro- 
ducing his  Arab  wife  into  the  ancestral  home." 

But  for  Williams'  tragic  expression  she  could 
have  laughed.  If  only  Lance  could  share  the  secret 
which  the  sheikh  had  confided  to  her  she  wondered 
what  course  then  he  would  have  taken.  Would  he 
have  made  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  have  stuck  to  her 
with  some  show  of  loyalty,  and  been  at  pains  to 
explain  to  all  and  sundry  that  his  girl-wife  had  no 
more  black  blood  in  her  veins  than  he  or  they?  A 
spirit  of  amused  contempt  seemed  to  have  banished 
the  depression  of  an  hour  ago.  She  began  to  gather 
up  the  cardboard  plates  and  folding  cups. 

"We  must  be  starting  soon  or  we  shan't  make 
Beni  el  Ourit  before  nightfall,"  she  remarked, 
glancing  upward  at  the  sun. 

Williams  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to  lift  her 
to  her  feet. 

"You  don't  regret  having  made  a  confidant  of 
me?"  he  askied. 

She  smiled. 

"I'm  ever  so  glad.  I  feel  as  though  a  weight 
is  lifted  from  my  mind.  But  I  must  confess,"  be- 
coming suddenly  businesslike,  "I  see  no  reason  why 
you  should  be  bothered  with  my  difficulties." 


SEPARATION  259 

"I  am  wondering  what  the  future  holds  for  you," 
lie  said  thoughtfully ;  "whether  you  will  go  back  to 
England  or  stay  in  North  Africa." 

She  laughed  ironically. 

"I've  no  desire  to  go  back  ...  a  married  woman 
without  a  husband!  In  Africa  no  one  will  either 
know  or  care,  once  I  leave  El  Bouira.  I  shall  have 
to  do  something  to  earn  a  living.  My  father  is 
very  poor." 

He  nodded. 

"I  quite  understand.  You  don't  want  to  be 
dependent  even  on  a  rich  husband.  I  wonder  what 
you  can  do?" 

She  smiled  down  at  him  as  he  lifted  her  foot  into 
the  stirrup. 

"Please  don't  worry.  Something  will  come 
along.  I  managed  to  earn  a  living  in  England:  I 
shall  do  the  same  here,  no  doubt.  Now,  having  de- 
cided on  the  inevitable,  shall  we  forget  all  about  it, 
and  think  only  of  our  first  and  last  excursion?" 

Her  words  struck  him  with  something  like  a 
shock.  As  they  rode  through  the  blinding  sunlight 
together  he  reflected  on  the  cruelty  of  fate  which 
could  allow  one  man  to  throw  aside  a  treasure 
which  he  himself  would  give  his  life  to  win.  Saada 
was  trying  to  put  a  brave  face  on  a  situation  as 
dark  and  desperate  as  it  well  could  be;  she  talked 
with  a  forced  gaiety,  heedless  of  the  somewhat  curt 
monosyllables  with  which  he  replied.  His  heart 
was  filling  with  a  wild,  passionate  longing  for  her 
in  her  trouble.     He  wanted  to  take  the  sweet,  sad 


260        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

face  between  his  hands  and  to  kiss  the  misery  from 
her  lips.  The  hour  had  revealed  what  long  had  lain 
dormant  in  his  soul — that  without  her  the  years 
ahead  must  be  always  empty,  because  love  had 
come  to  him.  Yes !  It  was  well  to  face  the  truth 
now.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  self-deception. 
The  world  held  only  one  woman  for  him — Saada, 
the  wife  of  another  man! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   MAN   LETWEEN 

YIELDING  to  the  entreaties  of  Mr.  Snitch 
and  Hetty,  Saada's  stay  at  Benl  el  Ourit 
lengthened  to  a  week.  She  was  glad  of 
the  opportunity  to  enjoy  surroundings  and  a  so- 
ciety pleasantly  removed  from  the  depressing  at- 
mosphere which  had  marked  the  last  few  days 
in  El  Bouira.  Theodore  Snitch — as  well  he  might 
be — was  enthusiastic  over  the  progress  made. 
Williams  was  proving  a  wonderful  organizer.  The 
forty  odd  workmen  whom  he  had  brought  had  been 
transformed  by  his  magnetic  personality  from  a 
disorganized  rabble  into  a  well-drilled  squad. 
Four  o'clock  each  morning  found  them  on  the  site 
of  the  buried  city,  toiling  like  ants  to  remove  the 
deep  layers  of  soft  sa^id,  and  each  day  new 
and  wonderful  treasures  were  being  brought  to 
light. 

Saada  usually  went  down  with  Hetty  in  the 
afternoon  to  inspect  the  morning's  discoveries.  She 
roamed,  fascinated,  between  long  rows  of  carved 
figures,  many  broken,  but  not  a  few  in  perfect 
preservation — a  marble  Demeter  with  a  face  which 
^Williams  thought  almost  as  classically  beautiful 
as  her  own,  a  Victory  Minerva  as  fine  as  the  famed 

261 


262        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

example  found  at  Bulla  Regia,  a  winged  Eros  in 
bronze,  perfect  save  for  the  lost  enamelled  eyes; 
•dancing  nymphs  as  pretty  as  any  of  Murillo's 
smiling  cherubs.  In  the  patio  of  a  Roman  house, 
decorated  later  by  the  addition  of  carved  pillars 
surmounted  by  horseshoe  arches  in  black  and  white 
marble,  they  uncovered  a  wonderful  mosaic  rep- 
resenting the  gift  of  the  vine  from  Dionysius  to 
Icarus,  so  beautiful  that  it  seemed  almost  a  pity 
to  carry  it  away. 

And  as  she  watched  the  great  work  going  on — 
the  unflagging  energy  and  zeal  with  which  John 
Williams  threw  himself  into  the  delicate  and  often 
dififlcult  operations — Saada  became  conscious  that 
her  interest  in  this  man  whom  her  influence  had 
reclaimed  was  something  more  than  interest  in  a 
friend.  The  realization  startled  her:  she  tried  to 
put  him  out  of  her  thoughts,  and,  failing  utterly, 
decided  to  return  to  El  Bouira.  She  confided  her 
intention  to  Hetty,  who  immediately  carried  it  to 
her  father,  with  consequences  directly  opposed  to 
those  which  Saada  deemed  wise. 

"Splendid!"  said  Mr.  Snitch,  turning  from  an 
engrossing  examination  of  a  number  of  Libyo- 
Punic  inscriptions  which  Williams  had  translated. 
"I  want  to  give  my  right-hand  another  little  break : 
he's  been  working  too  hard  since  you  came ;  in  fact, 
I'm  expecting  every  day  to  see  him  crock  up.  John, 
come  here :  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

A  tall  figure  emerged  through  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and   Williams,  with   the   perspiration   streaming 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  263 

down  his  face  and  bare  shoulders,  presented  him- 
self. 

"Mrs.  Railsford  thinks  she  had  better  be  getting 
back,"  the  little  man  said.  "I'd  like  you  to  take 
her  .  .  .  and  not  return  till  you've  had  a  full  week's 
rest." 

Williams  extended  a  long  brown  arm. 

"But  what  about  these  fellows?  I  can't  leave 
them.  You'll  find  them  chopping  up  all  sorts  of 
treasures  .  .  .  marble  fountains  and  Greek  vases." 

"You  do  as  you're  told,"  grunted  Snitch  good- 
humouredly.  "Het  and  me  will  look  after  the 
dagoes.  I'm  taking  to  this  excavation  like  a  duck 
to  water.  Mrs.  Railsford  can't  go  back  alone,  and 
as  there's  no  one  else  to  take  her,  ycfu  must." 

The  big  fellow  laughed  and  stared  across  at 
Saada,  who  stood  some  little  distance  off,  talking  to 
one  of  the  workmen. 

"You're  not  thinking  it  too  much  of  a  hardship, 
I  reckon,"  Snitch  went  on  bluntly. 

Williams  unshaded  his  eyes. 

"I  should  love  to  go,"  he  answered  uneasily. 
"But  really  I'd  much  rather  hang  on  here." 

Snitch  shot  him  a  puzzled  glance;  then  he  said, 
"Look  here,  you  go,  or  you  won't  get  that  fifty  a 
month  rise  I  promised  you.  It's  time  you  learnt 
to  be  obedient." 

The  other  passed  his  hand  across  his  moist  fore- 
head. 

"It's  not  money  that's  bothering  me  now,  sir. 
I'm  just  interested  in  the  work — ^that's  all." 


264        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

The  half-truth  had  to  suffice.  How  could  he 
confess  that  every  hour  alone  with  Saada  was  but  a 
mad  intoxication  of  hopeless  desire  to  pour  out 
the  story  of  his  love?  For  days  past  he  had  done 
everything  in  his  power — without  appearing  ill- 
mannered  or  boorish — to  avoid  her ;  now,  here  was 
his  employer  deliberately  throwing  them  together. 

His  manner  became  grim. 

"All  right,  I'll  go.  And  thank  you  for  the  offer 
of  time  off.  I  shan't  need  it,  though.  You'll  see 
me  back  inside  of  three  days." 

Snitch  laughed,  and  pulling  contentedly  at  his 
cigar,  passed  on. 

"You'd  better  not,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder. 
"If  I  see  you  inside  a  week  I'll  fire  you. 
Make  arrangements  to  leave  first  thing  tomorrow 
.  .  .  and  don't  forget  to  enjoy  yourself." 

He  never  guessed  how  far  from  possible  the  play- 
ful admonition  was.  Love  of  Saada  had  brought 
110  joy  to  John;  for  ever  there  rose  before  him  the 
spectral  figure  of  the  man  between.  Snitch  was 
being  unconsciously  cruel  to  throw  them  together 
at  a  time  when  by  all  the  laws  governing  happi- 
ness they  should  be  most  far  apart.  He  turned  to 
his  work  again,  revolving  every  aspect  of  a  condi- 
tion which  bothered  him.  To  have  fallen  in  love 
with  a  girl  who  regarded  him  only  as  a  friend  was 
bad  enough  :  to  love  with  the  full  ardour  of  his  soul 
a  woman  bound  for  life  to  a  man  she  did  not  care 
for  was  infinitely  worse.  He  wondered  what  Saada 
would  say  if  she  knew:  whether  she  would  turn 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  265 

from  him  as  every  one  had  done  at  the  time  of  his 
great  fall.  That  would  be  a  hurt  more  deep  than 
pain  of  the  secret  passion  consuming  him.  He 
could  not  think   of  life  without  her  friendship. 

They  rode  away  together  in  the  early  morning 
hours  to  catch  the  cool  of  the  day  before  the  sun 
was  fully  up;  he,  wrapped  in  a  sombre  silence, 
she  curiously  puzzled.  Once  or  twice  Saada  tried 
to  break  the  chill  of  reserve,  heedless  of  the  grip 
he  was  keeping  on  himself. 

"You  will  follow  Mr.  Snitch's  advice  to  take  a  few 
days'  rest  in  El  Bouira?"  she  remarked,  when  in 
the  approach  of  twilight  clumps  of  nodding  palm 
and  verdant  patches  of  cultivated  land  marked  their 
near  approach  to  the  town. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  hours  a  smile  replaced 
his  gloomy  expression. 

"No !"  he  said  with  marked  emphasis.  "I  shall 
risk  the  old  man's  wrath  by  going  back.  There's 
nothing  I  want  to  do  in  El  Bouira.  He  thinks  it 
would  please  me  to  burn  my  first  month's-  pay. 
Lord !  that's  the  last  thing  I'd  like  to  do  .  .  .  and 
as  I  haven't  a  friend  except  you " 

"But  you  will  have  me  .  .  .  and  my  father,"  she 
retorted  innocently,  "We  will  do  all  we  can  to 
make  your  little  holiday  pleasant.  Of  course 
you'll  stay!" 

"No,  I  shan't !"  His  voice  was  resolute — and  so 
sharp  that  she  shot  him  a  startled  glance. 

"Why?  D'you  think  we  shouldn't  like  to  have 
you  with  us?" 


2G6        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

"Would  you?"  he  asked,  looking  her  straight  in 
the  eyes. 

She  met  his  gaze  unflinchingly. 

"You  know  I  would.  I've  always  liked  being 
with  you." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it,  and  I  want  to  be  with  you. 
I  know  I  should  be  happy-^so  happy  that  I'm  not 
justified  in  claiming  the  reward.  I  shall  go  back 
.  .  .  and  I  don't  think  we  shall  ever  see  each  other 
again." 

"But  why  not?"  she  questioned,  momentarily 
taken  off  her  guard.  "Why  shouldn't  friends  see 
each  other  sometimes?" 

"If  friendship  will  content  them — ^yes!"  His 
cheeks  were  flaming  now,  and  the  swift  heaving  of 
his  chest  betrayed  the  emotion  under  which  he  was 
labouring.  "But  does  it,  for  long?  A  man's  inter- 
est in  a  woman  grows.  Then  is  the  time,  not  to 
shut  it  out  but  to  fight  it  down.  Saada,  don't  you 
realize  what  friendship  with  you  means  to  me?" 

For  a  little  while  she  made  no  effort  to  reply, 
conscious  that  at  last  the  veil  had  been  lifted,  and 
behind  it  she  was  glimpsing  both  his  heart  and  her 
own. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  do,"  she  said  at  length.  "I 
know  what  my  friendship  with  you  has  meant  to 
me  .  .  .  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life." 

He  caught  at  the  gloved  hand  resting  lightly  on 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle. 

"We  are  neither  children  nor  strangers,"  he  said 
feelingly.     "We  are  just  souls  which  have  come 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  267 

together  through  suffering.  Every  day,  every 
hour  I  find  myself  thinking  of  you." 

"I  think  of  you  too,"  she  admitted  gravely.  "I 
was  dreadfully  lonely  till  you  came." 

"And  you  will  be  lonely  again  when  I  have 
gone?" 

His  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat  as  he  hung  on 
her  answer.  She  bent  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"We  mustn't  talk  about  it."  The  words  almost 
failed  her.  "You  were  right,  and  I  was  wrong. 
You  must  go  away  ...  we  ought  never  to  try  to 
see  each  other  again.  Oh,  why  do  things  happen 
like  this?  Why  did  we  meet  that  night  in  Con- 
stantine?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  was  fate  that  drew 
us  together  and  made  you  the  one  great  influence 
in  my  life  .  .  .  and  it  is  fate  that  must  keep  us 
apart.     There  is  no  other  way,  is  there,  Saada?" 

"No,  John,"  she  murmured  faintly.  "There  is 
no  other  way." 

Their  hands  met  in  a  clasp  of  perfect  under- 
standing ;  then  he  said  very  gravely, 

"W^e  must  play  the  game  right  through  to  the 
end.  It  was  destined  we  should.  I  have  been 
thinking  about  this  for  days,  I  didn't  want 
Mr.  Snitch  to  send  me  with  you." 

"Were  you  afraid?"  she  asked  quietly. 

His  head  rose  and  fell. 

"Yes,  horribly  afraid.  I  kept  telling  myself 
your  marriage  had  cheated  me  of  my  happiness. 


268        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Another  day  and  it  might  never  have  taken  place. 
You  would  have  been  free  then  ...  to  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  loved  you." 

She  stared  unseeingly  into  the  blood-red  heart 
of  the  throbbing  sunset.  Like  those  fading  fires, 
her  own  happiness  was  passing  away  .  .  .  and  be- 
fore both  of  them  stretched  the  lonely  desolation 
of  the  long  night. 

"I  only  knew  what  was  in  my  own  heart.  I  should 
not  have  let  you  come  had  I  guessed  what  you 
were  feeling,"  she  said  miserably. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  and  his  eyes 
emerged  strong  with  resolution. 

"I  vowed  to  play  the  game — that  night  after 
you  had  pleaded  with  me.  I've  tried  so  hard  ever 
since.     I  certainly  won't  falter  now." 

She  regarded  him  with  the  admiration  which  a 
woman  always  feels  for  strength. 

"I  like  to  hear  you  say  that.  It  is — so  like  you. 
That  is  the  very  best  thing  I  could  say  of  you, 
John  .  .  .  that  I'm  very  proud  of  you." 

His  face  was  glowing. 

"I  would  rather  hear  that  from  you  than  from 
any  one  in  the  world.  Dear,  the  temptation  has 
been  very  strong  ...  to  tell  you  sometimes  all 
that  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  and  feeling.  The  other 
man  took  you — and  threw  you  away,  like  a  crushed 
flower.  I  wanted  just  to  take  that  crushed  flower 
up  into  my  hands,  to  cherish  and  care  for  it  with 
all  the  love  I  have.  Is  it  very  wrong  to  say  that, 
dear?" 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  269 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  saw  the  teardrops 
glisten  on  her  cheeks. 

"It  isn't  wrong,  John  .  .  .  for  two  people  to 
feel  about  each  other  as  we  do.  I  believe  that  God 
puts  love  into  our  hearts.  He  has  taught  me  to 
care  for  you  ...  to  love  and  admire  all  that  is 
best  in  you.  But  it  is  His  will  that  we  shouldn't 
go  further  than  that." 

A  passion  of  revolt  stirred  suddenly  in  the  man. 
He  lifted'  his  agonized  face  to  the  sky,  and  from  the 
depths  of  his  innermost  being  there  rose  the  ques- 
tion which  has  rung  through  all  the  ages, 

"Can  the  God  of  Love  be  so  cruel?  Long  ago  I 
realized  that  you  were  made  for  me.  You  came 
into  my  life  to  cleanse  it,  and  make  it  new  .  .  . 
and  clean  and  jiure,  like  your  own.  For  that  I 
loved  you:  dedicated  myself  to  you.  A  shadow 
falls  between  us — the  shadow  of  the  man  who 
broke  your  heart  and  went  away.  For  his  sin  are 
we  to  be  eternally  punished?" 

"I  cannot  answer  that,  dear,"  she  said  sadly.  "I 
only  feel  that  if  we  had  met  sooner  things  might 
have  been  different;  but  we  must  go  on — each  in 
the  right  way,  striving  to  do  our  duty.  Only  in 
that  way  will  a  measure  of  recompense  come." 

"I  shall  try  to  find  mine  in  work,"  he  said  res- 
olutely. 

She  smiled  encouragement. 

"And  I,  in  forgetting — not  you,  but  what  has 
happened.  Look!  we  are  nearing  the  Bab  Mok- 
hara  gate.     Yes — for  the  first  and  last  time,  if  you 


270        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

wish,"  and  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  surrender, 
she  lifted  her  hand  and  fdlowed  him  to  press  it 
to  his  lips. 

On  the  hotel  verandah  Yakoub  was  standing, 
watching  the  weekly  caravans  from  Touggourt  file 
in  stately  procession  along  the  Bab  el  Moldoun. 
Saada  waved  to  him,  and  the  smile  of  delighted 
welcome  which  he  gave  showed  his  dazzling  white 
teeth. 

"Your  fader  is  on  high,  Missy  Saada,"  he 
said,  helping  her  to  alight  and  catching  the  bridles 
of  both  the  horses.  "The  mail  come  two  hours 
since,  and  he  just  go  up  aloft.  Thank  you,  sar," 
salaaming  to  Williams.  "You  lebe  the  rubbing 
down  ob  dem  horse  to  me." 

"I'd  better  run  off  to  book  a  room  for  tonight," 
said  John,  mounting  the  steps  at  her  side.  "Per- 
haps we  may  meet  again  after  dinner." 

Saada  smiled. 

"Come  with  me.  Father  will  want  to  thank  you 
for  bringing  me  safely  home.  He  must  have  been 
rather  lonely  while  I  was  away." 

They  went  up,  chatting  of  anything  but  the 
thoughts  closest  to  their  hearts,  and  Saada  knocked 
softly  on  the  sitting-room  door. 

"He  must  have  gone  into  the  garden,"  she  said, 
turning  the  handle  and  peeping  in.  Then,  glanc- 
ing over  her  shoulder  at  John,  "No,  he  is  here, 
but  I  believe  he  is  asleep." 

Williams  drew  back  as  she  tip-toed  softly 
through  the  thick  pile  of  the  carpet.     He  saw  the 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  271 

slim  brown  hand  touch  the  bowed  shoulder,  but 
the  figure  in  the  chair  did  not  move.  Then  Saada's 
voice  hung  on  the  warm  evening  air, 

"Father,  whj  don't  you  speak  to  me?" 

"Don't  wake  him,"  John  said,  following  her  in. 
"The  night  is  very  close.     He  is  fast  asleep." 

"But  look!  He  is  different — somehow.  Oh, 
John,  what  is  the  matter?  He  does  not  speak  to 
me.     And  his  eyes  are  open.     I — I " 

Williams  caught  at  her  arm  and  drew  her  gently 
aside.  Then  he  bent  over  the  huddled-up  form  and 
lifted  Sheikh  Medene's  fingers.  They  were  marble 
cold. 

"I  think  he  has  fainted,"  he  muttered,  lowering 
his  ear  to  the  grey  lips.  A  tense  silence,  then, 
reaching  out  to  support  Saada,  he  said  very  ten- 
derly, "You  must  be  brave,  dear;  your  father  is 
dead." 

The  dark  eyes  widened  in  horror. 

"Dead!  Oh,  what  shall  we  do?"  she  cried,  and 
hiding  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  her  body  was 
shaken  with  sobs.  Tenderly  he  led  her  to  a  chair 
and  made  her  sit  down.  Then  he  bent  once  more 
over  the  motionless  figure.  A  white  sheet  of  paper 
was  gripped  in  the  nerveless  hand.  He  took  it 
mechanically,  and  peered  into  the  pallid  face, 
peaceful  in  death. 

"He  has  been  dead  some  little  while.  His  fore- 
head is  quite  cold.  I  believe  you  told  me  he  suf- 
fered with  his  heart?" 

She  looked  at  him  through  a  mist. 


272        A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SANDS 

"Yes,  his  heart  was  weak.  He  must  have  re- 
ceived a  shock.    What  is  that  letter?" 

Williams  passed  it  over. 

"It  looks  like  a  communication  from  a  lawyer. 
He  was  probably  reading  it  when  he  passed  away." 

"We  needn't  look  further  for  the  cause  of  death," 
Saada  said  after  a  little  while.  "The  shock  of  that 
letter  killed  him.  Eead  it.  You  will  understand 
then  something  of  the  character  of  the  man  I  mar- 
ried." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  shown  intense  bit- 
terness since  John  had  won  her  confidence.  He 
could  understand  exactly  how  she  was  feeling,  for 
the  letter  was  about  as  cruel  as  anything  could  be. 
Lance  had  instructed  Strangeways  to  deal  with  the 
matter,  and  Strangeways  had  written  abruptly  and 
concisely,  without  the  slightest  trace  of  sympathy, 
to  say  that  having  received  instructions  from  their 
client,  Mr.  Lance  Railsford,  who  had  entered  into 
a  marriage  which  he  very  much  regretted,  they 
were  prepared  to  make  through  Sheikh  Medene  an 
annual  allowance  in  respect  of  his  daughter,  on 
condition  that  the  said  daughter  made  no  attempt 
whatever  either  to  see,  molest,  or  communicate 
with  her  husband. 

Williams  came  to  the  end  in  a  white  heat  of 
passion.  Forgotten  for  a  moment  was  the  dead 
man  in  the  chair,  the  grey-faced,  horror-stricken 
girl  crushed  by  the  weight  of  this  great  catas- 
trophe; forgotten  everything,  save  that  somewhere 
in  the  world  was  a  brute  in  human  form  who  had 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  273 

wantonly  brought  suffering  on  the  woman  he  him- 
self loved. 

"My  God!  I'll  kill  him  for  this!"  he  ground 
out  savagely,  striding  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
hands  clenched.  "If  I  have  to  follow  him  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  .  .  .  I'll  get  him  .  .  .  and  make 
him  pay."  Then,  his  anger  cooling  in  the  presence 
of  death,  he  ceased  abruptly,  and  came  to  where 
Saada  sat  silent  and  heartbroken  with  her  grief. 

His  hand  touched  her  bowed  head  and  passed  to 
her  shoulder;  she  slid  from  the  chair  into  the 
shelter  of  his  arms,  and  on  his  bovsom  sobbed  out 
the  full  measure  of  her  pain.  For  a  long  time  he 
held  her  thus,  crushing  her  fast,  clasping  her  soft 
body  to  his  own,  knowing  that  for  this  one  brief 
hour  of  sadness  God  had  given  her  to  him. 

"Always  I  will  love  and  care  for  you,  little 
Saada,"  he  whispered,  burying  his  face  in  her  hair. 
"Every  hour  of  my  life  shall  be  lived  for  you. 
Will  you  let  me  care  for  you?" 

With  a  shudder  she  drew  herself  free  and  placed 
her  fingers  on  his  lips. 

"Dear,  we  mustn't  think  or  talk  like  that.  Oh, 
I  know  I  hurt  you  ...  I  see  the  pain  in  your 
dear  kind  eyes.  Love  and  sympathy  are  prompt- 
ing you  to  say  things  which  later  you  will  regret." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  returned  miserably.  "What- 
ever happens,  we  mustn't  lose  sight  of  the  unalter- 
able fact.  You  are  still  married,  and  as  long  as 
you  live  you  belong  to  him." 

She  sank  down  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and,  with 


274        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

his  arm  laid  lovingly  upon  her  shoulder,  her  small 
lingers  closed  upon  his  hand,  and  her  eyes,  full  of 
mournful  regrets,  were  fixed  on  the  pallid  face  of 
the  dead  man. 

"If  only  he  could  have  been  spared  to  me  I  could 
have  borne  the  rest,"  she  said  in  a  lifeless  whisper 
"He  was  always  my  best  friend  ...  a  mother  as 
well  as  a  father  to  me ;  so  gentle  and  kind  and  true. 
There  was  never  an  hour  but  I  was  in  his 
thoughts;  never  an  hour  when  I  ceased  to  think  of 
him.  Yet,  because  he  was  an  Arab,  my  husband 
despised  him.  John,"  looking  up  at  him,  "You 
don't  think  God  meant  this  to  be?" 

"I  don't,  dear,"  he  answered,  gently  caressing 
the  thick  abundance  of  her  hair.  "We  are  all  His 
creatures,  made  in  His  own  likeness  .  .  .  and 
though  at  times,"  a  shadowed  smile  softened  the 
grimness  of  his  mouth,  "some  of  us  defile  the  image, 
He  cares  for  all.  Your  father  was  as  much  to  Him 
as  the  noblest  white  man  who  ever  breathed." 

"You  do  believe  that  ...  in  spite  of  his  faith?" 
she  questioned  eagerly. 

He  inclined  his  head  reverently. 

"His  Allah  was  your  God  and  mine — no  more, 
no  less.  We  are  all  His,  sinner  and  saint,  black 
and  white.  Should  I  think  less  or  cease  to  care 
because  you  are  an  Arab  girl?" 

For  an  instant  the  impulse  was  strong  upon  her 
to  tell  him  the  story  of  her  birth.  And  yet  perhaps 
it  were  better  never  known.  No  good  purpose 
could  be  served  by  telling  it  now.     In  a  little  while 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  275 

this  man  and  she  must  go  their  separate 
ways.  .  .  . 

"You  will  always  be  my  friend,  John?"  Her 
hand  slid  trustingly  into  his  again. 

"Always  your  friend — loving  you,  through  sun- 
shine and  storm,  to  life's  end,"  he  answered,  touch- 
ing her  warm  flesh  with  his  lips.  "The  thought 
of  you  will  lift  me  up  and  carry  me  on,  perhaps 
through  dark  and  dangerous  days,  but  always 
towards  the  light.  We  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  gulf 
.  .  .  you  and  I,  Saada.  On  the  far  side  I  see  happi- 
ness .  .  .  my  happiness  and  yours  together,  not 
in  this  world,  but  in  the  world  beyond.  Below  .  .  . 
I  see  dark  places  through  which  you  and  I  must 
pass — alone.  But  one  day  we  shall  come  together 
...  is  it  wrong  to  tell  you  this?" 

"I  know  you  are  trying  to  comfort  me,"  she 
muttered  brokenly. 

"If  the  knowledge  of  my  love  is  comfort,  then 
God  will  surely  forgive  my  comforting  you,"  he 
answered.  "I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think 
happiness  should  be  seized  at  any  cost.  You 
taught  me  that  lesson  long  ago." 

He  looked  into  her  brave  eyes,  meeting  his  so 
directly,  and  went  on, 

"We  shall  be  often  lonely.  My  way  will  lie 
apart  from  yours.  But  always,  dear,  you  will  feel 
you  can  come  to  me." 

He  spoke  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  soul,  knowing 
that  not  only  did  he  worship  her  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  strong  body  and  vigorous  mind,  but 


276       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

that  she  was  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  to  him. 
Looking  back  through  all  the  dreariness  of  the  past, 
he  knew  that  he  had  lived  only  for  this  hour,  dur- 
ing which  he  had  found  at  last  the  treasure  he  had 
searched  for.  And  he  had  found  her  too  late.  She 
knew  it  too.  It  was  in  her  eyes,  her  voice,  the 
clinging  touch  of  the  soft  hands  that  reached  up 
and  took  his  face  between  them. 

"Try  to  help  me  too  .  .  .  not  to  forget,"  she 
pleaded.  "You  have  been  tempted,  and  you  know 
the  way.  I — I  am  so  weak  and  miserable.  Where- 
ever  I  look,  John,  I  see  only  the  darkness  ahead.'* 

"We  must  be  very  brave  and  very  strong,  dear," 
he  said  again.  "The  temptation  is  to  feel  we  are 
justified:  you  especially,  because  of  the  wrong 
done  you.  The  man  to  whom  you  are  bound  has 
killed  your  father." 

"And  because  of  that  I  am  learning  to  hate  him," 
she  cried,  with  startling  vehemence.  "A  little 
while  ago,  when  he  sent  me  that  cruel  letter,  I  told 
myself  he  had  no  power  to  hurt  me  any  more. 
Now  he  has  done  this  cruel  thing,  and  I  can  never, 
never  forgive  him." 

The  look  he  gave  her  checked  the  furious  current 
of  her  words. 

"Men  strike  in  the  dark  and  wound  in  un- 
expected places.  Eailsford  never  meant  to  do  all 
this.  The  time  must  come  when  he  will  realize  the 
full  measure  of  his  guilt.  A  little  while  ago  I 
would  have  killed  him  cheerfully — have  gone  to  the 
far  ends  of  the  earth  to  make  him  pay.     I  have 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  277 

learned — this  last  half-hour — that  all  our  lives, 
yours,  his,  and  mine,  are  in  the  hands  of  One  who 
will  mould  them  to  His  will." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  sudden  questioning. 

"John,  what  makes  you  speak  like  that?" 

"What  makes  me?"  His  lips  lifted  in  a  slow 
smile.  "You  are  telling  yourself  that  once  I  was 
so  weak.  I  was — until  love  came  .  .  .  your  love 
for  me  ...  a  new  and  wonderful  power  which 
just  crept  into  my  poor  life  and  made  it  altogether 
different.  Love,  the  love  of  a  good  woman  like 
you,  has  worked  a  miracle  in  me.  I  am  what  I  am, 
or  ever  shall  be,  because  of  your  love  for  me. 
Don't  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  am  beginning  to  understand,"  she  an- 
swered softly.  "It  helps  me  ever  so  much  when  I 
am  tempted  to  be  despondent.  Everything  isn't 
yet  lost,  John.  Something  very  big  and  grand  has 
come  to  both  of  us — to  help  us  through  the  dark- 
ness." 

She  rose,  looking  wonderfully  composed,  and 
after  kissing  the  dead  man's  forehead,  drew  the 
white  folds  of  his  silk  robe  over  his  face.  Then  she 
turned  again  to  John  with  a  clear,  understanding 
gaze.  Looking  at  her  thus  in  silence  a  long  min- 
ute, he  read  her  purpose  and  her  promise  ...  to 
be  true,  though  they  loved  each  other,  to  the  best 
that  was  in  them. 

"We  will  do  our  utmost  always,  Saada.  It 
won't  be  easy,  and  when  we  are  far  away  from  each 
other  the  longing  to  meet  will  sweep  over  us  again 


278       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

and  again.     But  through  it  all  we  shall  know,  we 
always  have — our  love." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  in  silence  they  passed  out 
together. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  be  done  .  .  .  officials, 
both  native  and  European,  to  be  dealt  with,  the  fu- 
neral arrangements  to  be  made.  John  was  glad 
Kow  that  Theodore  Snitch  had  insisted  on  his  tak- 
ing the  full  week  off.  He  threw  his  whole  energy 
into  making  everything  as  easy  as  possible  for 
Saada. 

The  sheikh  was  to  be  buried  with  the  full  rites  of 
the  faith  in  which  he  had  always  lived  and  died. 
The  interment  took  place  on  the  Wednesday,  after 
a  brief  but  dignified  service  in  the  Great  Mosque  of 
El  Bouira,  a  beautiful  building  dating  from  the 
time  of  Abou-ben-Mohammed  El  Aghlab.  Then, 
the  coffin  draped  in  rich  hangings  and  carried  by 
bearers,  a  procession  was  formed,  and  walked  to 
the  dirge  of  sad  music  to  the  Arab  cemetery  be- 
yond the  town.  Both  John  and  Saada  followed, 
picking  their  way  through  the  numerous  ornamen- 
tal graves,  richly  decorated  with  blue  tiles  and 
Burmounted  by  a  carved  turban  or  a  gilded  crescent. 
The  coffin  was  lowered,  the  imdm  read  the  com- 
mittal service  and  recited  a  few  portions  from  the 
Koran ;  then  to  the  beat  of  hendirs  and  the  wailing 
of  the  mourners,  the  party  returned  to  the  town. 

Saada  had  already  made  her  plans — to  sell  the 
furnishings  of  the  villa,  to  obtain  release  from  the 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  279 

agreement  which  Lance  had  entered  into,  and 
with  Yakoub  to  return  to  Tunis. 

"I  must  be  there  to  see  my  father's  affairs  wound 
up,"  she  explained  to  John.  "He  had  a  large 
house,  although  how  he  has  left  it  I  don't  know." 

"But  you  must  promise,  if  you  have  any  diffl- 
culty,  to  send  for  me,"  he  insisted. 

"If  I  feel  I  need  you  I  will  send,"  she  told  him. 

He  remained  at  the  hotel  until  the  moment  for 
her  departure  came.  They  talked  a  little  while 
till  the  Transatlantique  company's  car  was  ready 
to  take  her  on  the  first  stage  of  the  journey,  as  far 
as  Biskra.  Then,  heavy  of  heart,  she  took  leave 
of  him  and  strove  to  fix  her  thoughts  on  the  new 
life  that  lay  before  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MUHAMMED    BEY 

ALONE  in  the  once  stately  palace  home 
near  the  Rue  Sidi  Abdallah,  Saada  found 
her  hands  more  than  full.  As  she  antici- 
pated, the  sheikh's  affairs  were  terribly  involved 
...  so  much  so  that  time  and  again  she  was 
tempted  to  send  for  John.  The  thought,  however,' 
of  the  good  work  he  was  doing  under  Theodore 
Snitch,  and  the  progress  he  was  making,  stayed 
her:  with  the  faithful  Yakoub  helping  her, 
she  faced  the  difficulties  in  a  spirit  of  calm  reso- 
lution. 

One  of  her  first  tasks  was  purely  personal  .  .  . 
to  write  to  Lance's  lawyers  informing  them  of  the 
sheikh's  death,  and  to  tell  them  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstances would  she  consent  to  receive  a  penny  of 
her  husband's  money.  More,  she  returned  a  full 
statement  of  affairs  at  El  Bouira,  and  enclosed  the 
agreement  release  with  the  balance  received  after 
all  claims  had  been  met. 

When  this  was  done  she  felt  more  free.  At  least 
she  was  no  longer  beholden  to  the  man  who  had 
deserted  her. 

While  outstanding  matters  in  connection  with 
the  sheikh's  affairs  remained  to  be  settled,  she  had 

280 


MUHAMMED  BEY  281 

time  to  examine  the  papers  which  the  sheikh  had 
left  her.  She  found  among  them  all  the  records 
necessary  to  establish  her  identity :  the  birth  and 
marriage  certificates  of  her  mother  and  father,  the 
certificate  of  her  own  birth,  and  the  signed  and 
witnessed  statement  of  the  sheikh  himself.  There 
were,  in  addition,  besides  several  articles  of  jew- 
ellery bearing  the  Denton  family  crest  and  mon- 
ogram, a  coloured  photograph  of  herself,  taken 
when  a  baby,  definitely  recognizable  by  the  tiny 
birthmark  on  the  left  side  of  her  throat. 

These  papers  she  sealed  up  and  took  to  the  offices 
Of  the  British  Consul  in  the  Place  de  la  Bourse 
beyond  the  Port  de  France. 

An  examination  of  Sheikh  Medene's  accounts  re- 
vealed a  sad  and  deplorable  state  of  affairs.  They 
went  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  sent  her  to  her 
first  expensive  school  in  Paris,  and  covered  a  period 
of  five  years  ...  up  to  the  day  when  the  impos- 
sibility of  raising  further  sums  had  forced  him  to 
write  and  say  that  her  schooldays  must  come  to  a 
close.  Saada  went  through  them,  sad  at  heart — 
the  record  of  her  foster-father's  generous  unselfish- 
ness. From  that  expense,  having  raised  the 
necessary  money  at  an  extortionate  rate  of  interest, 
he  appeared  never  to  have  recovered. 

The  house  itself,  once  a  store  of  stately  treasures, 
was  heavily  mortgaged  to  an  Arab  merchant  in  the 
Souk-el-Chehiaa.  As  day  followed  day,  and  Saada 
met  and  dealt  with  fresh  hordes  of  creditors — buy- 
ing them  off  as  best  she  could  by  making  over 


282        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

the  rich  furnishings  and  hangings — the  position 
changed  from  bad  to  worse. 

One  afternoon  she  returned  from  a  walk  in  the 
Belvedere  Gardens  at  the  far  end  of  the  long, 
straight  Avenue  de  Paris,  her  sole  relaxation  after 
a  week's  unremitting  work,  to  see  walking  in  the 
courtyard  at  Yakoub's  side  a  tall,  dignified-looking 
Arab  who  was  speaking  with  a  great  deal  of  ani- 
mation. 

As  she  passed  under  the  cool  colonnaded  arch, 
hung  with  baskets  of  swinging  jElowers,  Yakoub 
hurried  towards  her,  and  said, 

"Miss  Saada,  the  Sheikh  Muhammed  Bey  has 
called  to  pay  his  respects,  and  he  begs  to  be  allowed 
to  see  you  in  private  to  discuss  a  matter  of  urgent 
business." 

Saada  glanced  across  at  the  big  hernoused  figure 
idly  watching  the  goldfish  darting  to  and  fro  in  the 
fountain  basin. 

"Muhammed  Bey?"  she  repeated,  a  shadow  set- 
tling on  her  face.  "Isn't  he  our  biggest  creditor, 
Yakoub — ^the  merchant  who  has  threatened  to  sell 
us  up  unless  all  his  claims  are  settled  immedi- 
ately?" 

Yakoub  inclined  his  head. 

"Indeed  so,  Miss  Saada,  a  wealthy  and  powerful 
Arab,  but  withal  a  man  renowned  for  his  charity 
and  good  works.  He  wishes  to  explain  the  letter 
which  you  received  from  the  Arab  lawyers  this 
morning." 

"Then  I  will  see  him,"  she  said,  passing  between; 


MUHAMMED  BEY  283 

the  twisted  marble  columns  into  a  three-sided  door- 
less  room  which  opened  directly  on  to  the  court- 
yard.    "I  will  receive  him  here." 

Yakoub  went  out  to  acquaint  the  visitor  and 
hurried  off  to  prepare  coffee.  Saada  rose  and  be- 
gan to  draw  off  her  gloves,  as  the  good-looking 
Arab  bowed  and  greeted  her  with  a  friendly  sal- 
utation. 

^'Your  good  servant  has  doubtless  acquainted 
you  with  the  object  of  my  visit,"  Muhammed  Bey 
said,  sinking  down  on  the  pile  of  cushions  which 
the  girl  set  for  him.  "I  come  to  offer  my  apolo- 
gies. Miss  Medene,  for  the  harsh  tone  of  the  letter 
which  my  lawyers  sent  to  you  yesterday.  I  did 
not  see  it  until  this  morning.  I  regret  exceedingly 
it  was  ever  sent." 

Saada  smothered  a  sigh  and  smiled  bravely. 

"It  was  only  businesslike,  Muhammed  Bey,"  she 
said  quietly.  "I  have  discovered  that  my  father" 
— she  had  decided  always  to  speak  of  the  sheikh 
as  her  father —  "owed  you  large  sums  of  money. 
You  are  only  one  among  several,  although  I  agree 
you  are  the  largest  creditor.  What  do  you  wish 
me  to  do?" 

The  Arab  stroked  his  glossy  black  beard,  and 
all  the  while  his  sombre  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on 
her  intently.  His  voice  was  very  pleasant  as  he 
answered, 

"I  have  learned  something,  Miss  Medene,  of  the 
unfortunate  position  in  which  you  find  yourself. 
Your  father  died  heavily  in  debt.     Honouring  his 


284       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

name  and  memory  as  you  do,  you  are  naturally 
anxious  he  should  escape,  even  death,  the  greatest 
stigma  that  can  be  attached  to  an  ancient  and  hon- 
oured family.  You  wish  to  see  all  his  debts  hon- 
ourably met." 

"Indeed  I  do,"  she  said  earnestly.  "But  the 
claims  are  so  many  that  the  task  appears  im- 
possible. I  have  already  sold  all  the  carpets  and 
the  bulk  of  the  furniture;  the  house,  as  you  know, 
is  mortgaged  .  .  .  and  your  account  still  remains 
to  be  paid." 

Muhammed  Bey  toyed  with  the  string  of  amber 
beads  about  his  neck. 

"I  should  esteem  it  an  honour,  out  of  respect  to 
your  dead  father,  to  remit  the  debt.  But  that  I 
know.  Miss  Medene,  you  would  never  agree  to.  I 
have  called,  therefore,  to  make  another  suggestion. 
You  have  heard  of  me  as  a  rich  merchant  in  this 
town.  In  the  souks  many  of  the  largest  shops  are 
owned  by  me.  My  caravans  travel  by  all  the  routes 
across  North  Africa — from  Rabat  to  Fez  and  Al- 
giers, from  Tunis  to  Biskra,  and  some  across  Arabia 
even  as  far  as  Jedda,  the  gate  to  Mecca,  and  to 
distant  Baghdad.  Such  a  business,  you  realize,  in- 
volves a  great  deal  of  work." 

"And  necessitates  that  every  one  pays  you  to 
the  full,"  she  interposed,  quite  mistaking  his  inten- 
tion. 

He  smiled  genially. 

"That,  of  course,  is  important.  But  what  is 
even  more  important  to  me  is  to  possess  an  effi- 


MUHAMMED  BEY  285 

cient  right  hand.  I  have  just  lost  my  secretary — 
young  Sukri  Chemal,  who  has  gone  to  Sfax  to 
start  a  business  of  his  own.  I  need  some  one  with 
a  knowledge  of  French  and  English  as  well  as  of 
our  own  tongue.  In  consideration  of  my  aban- 
doning all  claims  on  your  father's  estate,  will  you 
come  and  work  for  me?" 

To  Saada  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  see  her  foster- 
father's  name  cleared  of  the  reproach  which  threat- 
ened it.  She  rose  and  took  a  bundle  of  papers 
from  a  nacre-topped  coffer  and  began  to  read  rap- 
idly. 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  "that  apart  from  your 
claim,  Muhammed  Bey,  all  the  other  creditors 
could  be  paid.  I  think  I  could  do  as  you  wish — 
for  a  time,  at  any  rate." 

"Of  course  you  would  be  comfortably  housed  and 
well  cared  for  under  my  roof,"  the  Arab  continued. 
"I  should  pay  you  a  salary  commensurate  with 
your  needs,  and  when  the  debt  is  wiped  off — every- 
thing would  depend  on  your  usefulness  to  me — we 
should  arrange  other  terms.  I  assure  you,  Miss 
Medene,  you  would  n'ot  find  me  ungenerous." 
.  "You  would  wish  me  to  live  in  your  house?" 
Saada  mused. 

"It  would  be  better  so,  because  that  would  save 
you  much  money.  Hotels  in  Tunis  are  expensive 
just  now.  You  would  share  the  apartments  with 
my  two  wives.  Like  you,  they  are  both  young, 
and  enjoy  a  considerable  measure  of  freedom.  I 
have  a  fine  house  in  the  city,  and  another  at  Ham- 


286        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

mam-el-Lif.  However,"  with  a  wave  of  his  richly- 
jewelled  hand,  "perhaps  you  would  like  to  think 
over  the  proposition  and  consult  your  friends 
about  it." 

"I  have  no  friends  in  Tunis,"  she  replied  quickly, 
"and  I  don't  think  the  matter  requires  consider- 
ation. It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  make  such  a 
suggestion.  I  am  willing  to  agree  to  your  terms, 
and  to  come  whenever  you  need  me." 

Muhammed  Bey  inclined  his  turbaned  head. 

"I  am  honoured  by  your  complaisance,  made- 
moiselle," he  said,  drawing  the  folds  of  his  hernouse 
about  him  as  he  rose.  "If  you  can  place  your 
services  at  my  disposal,  from  the  beginning  of  next 
month,  I  shall  indeed  be  glad." 

He  kissed  his  own  hand  as  a  sign  that,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  the  bargain  would  be  strictly 
adhered  to,  and  thanking  her  again,  passed  a  bless- 
ing upon  the  house  and  the  shelter  it  had  given 
him,  drained  the  cup  of  coffee  and  went  out — a 
majestic  figure — into  the  white  sunlight  of  the 
afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

ALONG  summer  had  lingered  on  into  an 
early  autumn,  and  on  the  wide  stretches 
of  broadland  around  Lance  Railsford's 
stately  home  a  few  cruising  yachts  were  still  afloat 
enjoying  the  bright  October  days.  Winter,  how- 
ever, arrived  with  unexpected  suddenness;  the 
bright-hued  flowers  which  decked  the  dykes  and 
riversides  vanished,  and  within  a  week  the  marshes 
were  buried  under  a  white  coverlet  of  snow.  The 
drear  time  of  the  year  had  come  with  a  vengeance. 
On  the  flats  and  seashore  grey-backed  Kentishmen 
joined  the  ringed  plovers  and  sanderlings,  a  certain 
sign  that  the  cold  weather  would  last. 

For  the  young  squire  of  Landringham  a  solitary 
existence  set  in.  The  heavy  snowfall  had  made 
untraversable  the  highways  across  the  marshes; 
the  long  days  through,  the  steely  river  was  blurred 
by  Arctic  winds  which  swept  the  drear  misty  wastes 
and  gave  to  the  surrounding  countryside  the 
appearance  of  Russian  steppes.  There  were  no 
frost  fairies  at  work,  diamonding  the  catkins 
and  pine-needles  with  crystal  rime;  feathery  reed 
plumes,  brave  when  ice-coated,  bent  downcast 
heads  to  the  biting  breeze.     The  carrs  and  spinneys 

287 


288        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

were  mere  sedge-traps;  even  the  marshman  with 
his  old-fashioned  muzzle-loading  gun,  tired  of 
waiting  for  golden  plover  to  flight  to  the  uplands, 
sought  the  warmth  of  his  own  fireside.  Black 
winter  had  placed  a  death-hand  upon  the  land. 

In  the  panelled  library  Lance  sat  alone,  every 
now  and  then  turning  a  watchful  eye  on  the  huge 
octagonal  dial  of  the  Parliament  clock.  As  it 
showed  the  hour  of  seven,  he  touched  a  bell  and 
his  man  appeared. 

"Tell  Hayden  to  have  the  car  ready  for  the 
station  within  ten  minutes,"  he  said  irritably. 
"General  Bailey  has  wired  to  say  he  will  arrive  by 
the  seven-thirty  instead  of  the  ten  o'clock.  Thank 
you;  that  is  all." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  silent-footed  Bates, 
Railsford  dropped  back  into  the  depths  of  the 
spacious  chair  and  relapsed  once  more  into  a  moody 
silence.  A  year  had  changed  him.  No  longer 
was  the  boyish  looking  face  bright  with  exuberance ; 
deep  lines  of  discontent  sagged  about  a  peevish 
mouth;  the  black  hair  at  his  temples  had  thinned 
visibly,  and  in  the  shadowed  eyes  was  often  a  look 
of  utter  dejection.  The  truth  was  that  wealth  and 
idleness  had  spoiled  him.  He  was  never  a  keen 
sportsman,  so  had  found  no  pleasure  either  in 
sailing  or  fishing  the  waterways  in  summer,  or  in 
shooting  his  own  covers  through  the  winter.  He 
had  become  an  aimless,  purposeless  man,  without 
ambition  and  without  amusements. 

He  had  thought  that  Landringham,  with  its  man- 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  289 

ifold  attractions,  would  fill  each  hour  of  his  life 
with  enjoyment;  he  was  learning  already  that 
great  possessions  carry  great  responsibilities.  The 
care  of  the  vast  estate  bothered  him ;  he  found  little 
interest  either  in  his  own  position  or  that  of  his 
tenantry.  The  social  lure,  upon  which  his  mother 
had  lain  such  a  stress,  had  proved  a  disillusion- 
ment. In  spite  of  his  wealth  he  had  made  few 
friends.  In  some  mysterious  manner  the  news  of 
his  ill-starred  marriage  had  become  fairly  general 
public  property :  people  wanted  to  know  why  Land- 
ringham  lacked  its  mistress,  and  receiving  no  sat- 
isfactory answer,  held  aloof.  The  effect  upon 
a  nature  so  self-conscious  as  Lance's  was 
quickly  apparent  and  he  became  an  austere,  silent 
taan. 

He  was  pleased  when  Bailey  wrote  to  him  from 
Marseille  saying  that,  having  finished  with  the  ex- 
pedition, he  was  returning  to  England  and  hoped 
they  would  meet  in  town.  By  return  Lance  had 
written  asking  him  to  put  in  the  first  free  week-end 
with  him. 

A  little  before  eight  the  car  returned,  bringing 
the  visitor — the  same  genial,  time-worn  soldier  of 
fortune,  as  free  of  speech  and  easy  of  manner  as 
when  Lance  had  last  seen  him  at  El  Bouira. 

"Life  has  wrought  wonderful  changes  for  you, 
my  boy,"  he  remarked  half  an  hour  later,  when  they 
stood  together  by  the  library  fire,  waiting  for  the 
dinner-gong  to  sound.  "How  are  you  enjoying 
your  new  and  wonderful  inheritance?" 


290        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

The  younger  man  turned  on  his  companion  a  look 
of  utter  weariness. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  General,  I'm  dead  sick  of 
it  all,"  he  remarked  sullenly.  "I  was  turning 
things  over  in  my  mind  before  you  arrived  .  .  . 
and  I've  almost  decided  to  shut  the  beastly  place 
up  and  to  get  back  to  North  Africa.  However, 
you  look  tired  and  hungry:  there  goes  the  gong. 
We'll  talk  about  it  after  dinner." 

"Let's  take  our  cigars  to  the  library,  it's  warmer 
there,"  Railsford  said  an  hour  later.  "I  hate  this 
huge  barn,  large  enough  to  dine  fifty  people.  Why 
my  uncle  didn't  sell  the  place  in  his  lifetime,  in- 
stead of  burdening  me  with  it,  I  can't  make  out. 
I'd  have  done  far  better  with  the  interest  on  the 
money." 

"Family  pride,  my  boy,"  laughed  Bailey,  slap- 
ping his  host  genially  on  the  shoulder.  "The  old 
man  evidently  hoped  to  see  the  family  title  revived 
in  your  person.  I'm  sorry  if  things  aren't  going 
as  well  as  you  could  wish.    What's  the  trouble?" 

"My  mother,  for  one  thing,'*  Lance  answered 
glumly.  "She's  wintering  in  the  Riviera,  and  be- 
tween the  intervals  of  losing  much  money  and  win- 
ning a  little,  spends  her  time  in  sending  me  insult- 
ing letters." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  this,"  Bailey  said  feelingly. 
"I  hope  the  estrangement  is  only  temporary.  You 
were  always  such  big  pais.  It  seems  a  pity  for 
mother  and  son  to  be  at  loggerheads." 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  291 

Railsford  emitted  a  harsli  laugh. 

"We've  never  been  anything  else  since  I  took 
possession  of  the  place.  My  uncle,  you  know,  left 
her  two  thousand  a  year.  She  didn't  think  it 
enough :  thought  she  ought  to  have  at  least  ten 
thousand  out  of  the  estate  .  .  .  and  I  jibbed." 

"Naturally!  An  estate  like  this  must  be  very 
expensive  to  keep  up." 

"It  wasn't  that  altogether.  It  was  the  spirit 
which  prompted  the  demand.  Her  point  was  that 
if  Uncle  Hugh  had  known  I  was  engaged  or  mar- 
ried to  an  Arab  girl  he  wouldn't  have  left  me  a 
penny.  She  tactfully  kept  the  news  from  him,  and 
consequently  argues  that  she  is  as  much  entitled 
to  a  big  share  of  the  fortune  as  I  am." 

Bailey  laughed  heartily. 

"Sounds  almost  like  family  blackmaO,  Lance. 
Of  course  you  didn't  give  way?" 

He  negatived  the  suggestion  sharply. 

"On  principle,  no.  Besides,  I  don't  approve  of 
the  way  she  is  spending  what  she  has.  She  in- 
dulges in  every  luxury  and  extravagance,  and  has 
a  perfect  mania  for  gambling.  Before  she  went 
away  she  used  to  get  up  bridge  parties ;  they  began 
at  eleven  in  the  morning  and  finished  God  knows 
what  time  of  the  night,  until  the  house  became  a 
veritable  bear-garden  of  greedy,  haggling,  quarrel- 
some old  women.  At  last  I  had  to  tell  her  I'd  have 
no  more  of  it.  I  cleared  the  whole  lot  out,  and  she 
went  off  in  a  huff  to  the  south  of  France,  since 
when  her  first  year's  two  thousand  has  melted  into 


292        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

thin  air  and  she's  set  herself  to  pledge  my  credit 
for  more." 

"Rather  unpleasant,  these  family  jars,  eh?" 
Bailey  sipped  thoughtfully  at  his  wine  while  his 
glance  roved  over  the  dignified  riches  of  the  room. 
"However,  you've  a  very  comfy  shop  here,  and  no 
doubt  you  get  plenty  of  quiet  amusement  out  of  it." 

"Amusement!"  Lance  yawned.  "I'm  bored 
stiff.  I  hate  the  people  and  I  loathe  the  country- 
side. Sport  doesn't  interest  me  at  all;  club  life 
tires  me,  and  altogether  I'm  fed  up  with  the  whole 
business.  That's  why,  before  dinner  I  said  I 
thought  of  getting  back  to  Africa." 

The  General  sat  up,  his  curiosity  aroused. 

"Why?" 

"Life  is  more  free.  There  you  can  do  as  you 
like;  here  you  can't.  Every  action  is  noted  and 
commented  upon.  In  an  Eastern  land  it  is  so 
different." 

"You  didn't  find  it  so  very  free  and  easy  in  El 
Bouira,  dear  boy.  By  the  by,  what  happened  to 
that  native  wife  of  yours?  A  great  pity  you  ever 
married.  You  might  have  found  a  nice  English 
girl  and  settled  down  here  quite  happily.  That's 
what  you  want  ...  to  found  a  family.  You've 
money,  position,  everything — and  yet,  I  suppose," 
turning  a  thoughtful  glance  on  the  crackling  cedar 
logs,  "it's  quite  out  of  the  question." 

A  regretful  sigh  drifted  between  them.  Rails- 
ford,  leaning  back,  seemed  to  be  lost  in  a  study  of 
the   richly-carved   oak   ceiling.     Faint   whirls   of 


GEEAT  POSSESSIONS  293 

gossamer-blue  smoke  drifted  lazily  in  the  warm  air 
and  took  fancy  shapes  until  he  could  have  sworn 
that  they  formed  the  outline  of  a  face  wondrously 
beautiful  yet  pitifully  sad. 

He  shook  himself  and  came  to  ground  again,  to 
see  Bailey  regarding  him  with  a  strangely  insist- 
ent stare.  He  was  trying  to  frame  an  answer  when 
the  other  broke  in  with, 

"There's  no  possibility  of  getting  that  wretched 
marriage  annulled,  I  suppose?  Money,  you  know, 
Lance,  can  work  most  things.  Isn't  there  a  loop- 
hole, somewhere,  on  the  question  of  religion?  It 
shouldn't  be  difl&cult  to  make  out  that  as  she  was 
a  Mahommedan  and  you  a  Christian,  and  the  cere- 
mony was  performed  only  according  to  Christian 
rites,  there  was  a  legal  flaw.  Lawyers  are  such 
plausible  beggars  these  days ;  they  manage  to  drive 
a  coach  and  horses  through  most  things;  couldn't 
you " 

"I've  no  wish  to  get  the  marriage  annulled," 
he  said  wearily.  "If  I  could,  I  shouldn't  want  to 
marry  any  one  else." 

Bailey  straightened  and  smirched  his  shirt- 
front  with  a  fall  of  ash. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  .  .  .  you  regret  hav- 
ing left  her?" 

The  other  stirred  uneasily  beneath  the  question- 
ing look. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  regret,"  he  replied  eva- 
sively. "Sometimes  the  feeling  comes  over  me  that 
I've  been  an  awful  brute.     I  try  to  put  her  out  of 


294        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

my  mind,  but  I  can't.  She's  always  with  me,  Gen- 
eral. For  days  I  sit  here  alone,  long  hours  to- 
gether, without  seeing  a  soul ;  I  don't  want  any  one 
near  me  .  .  .  and  my  thoughts  go  back  to  the 
happiest  time  in  my  life  .  .  .  the  enga^ment  days 
which  we  spent  together  in  Tunis." 

"My  dear  fellow " 

Lance  pushed  back  his  chair  and,  rising,  set  his 
shoulders  against  the  oak  mantelpiece. 

"It's  true,"  he  admitted.  "She  just  haunts  me. 
I  see  her  everywhere,  and  in  the  long  evenings, 
when  this  great  house  is  silent  as  the  grave,  I 
hear  her  voice  .  .  .  and  I  tell  myself  ...  I  can't 
live  without  her." 

The  older  man  laughed  satirically. 

"Nonsense,  nonsense.  You  need  a  change,  that's 
all.  It's  foolish  to  repine.  For  one  thing,  you 
couldn't  bring  her  here;  for  another,  if  she  has 
any  self-respect — and  from  what  I've  heard  she 
possesses  a  good  deal — you'd  only  meet  with  a  snub 
for  your  pains.  My  advice  is — don't  complicate 
an  already  delicate  situation.  You  appear  to  have 
trouble  enough  on  hand  over  your  mother." 

Railsford  looked  grim. 

"Frankly,  mother  doesn't  distress  me  over 
much,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  reflectively  over 
his  smooth-shaven  chin.  "She  is  deliberately  lay- 
ing up  her  own  store  of  trouble  and  must  abide 
by  the  consequences.  But  what  annoys  me  is  the 
fact  that  her  influence  started  a  heap  of  trouble  for 
me." 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  295 

"In  what  way,  Lance?" 

The  admission  seemed  more  than  a  little  cow- 
ardly.    He  made  it,  all  the  same. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  I  don't  believe  I  should! 
ever  have  dreamt  of  throwing  Saada  over  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  her.  She  was  always  driving  home 
the  danger  of  a  mixed  marriage.  I  went  into  the 
engagement  happily  enough.  I  believe  the  mar- 
riage would  have  been  a  success,  if  only  I  had  given 
it  a  chance." 

Bailey's  grey  head  moved  deliberately  from  side 
to  side. 

"I  don't.  Lance.  Your  mother  was  right.  Be- 
sides, if  you  blame  her  you  should  blame  me  too. 
I,  perhaps,  did  as  much  as  any  one  to  dissuade  you. 
My  only  regret  was,  I  couldn't  influence  you  in 
time.  The  news  of  the  wedding  upset  me  very 
much  indeed.  Now,  if  I  were  you,"  becoming  sud- 
denly animated,  "I  should  just  pack  up — that  is,  if 
you're  feeling  fed  up  with  this  place,  and  heaven 
alone  knows  why  you  should  be — and  clear  off 
.  .  .  anywhere,  except  to  North  Africa.  Try  the 
South  Seas,  for  example.  At  this  time  of  the  year 
they're  perfectly  delightful." 

"No!"  Lance  spoke  with  vigour,  "if  I  go  any- 
where it  will  be  to  North  Africa.  It's  a  strange 
thing,  General,  but  one  associates  certain  places 
with  one's  happy  memories.  When  I  think  of 
Tunis  now  I  recall  the  gorgeous  sunny  hours  when 
Saada  and  I  were  just  together.  I  mean  to  go  to 
Tunis  and  see  if  I  cannot  catch  something  of  the 


296        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

spirit  of  the  past.  I  shall  know,  when  I  get  there 
and  visit  some  of  the  old  familiar  spots,  whether 
she  is  essential  to  my  future  as  I  am  beginning  to 
think  she  is.  If  so,  I  shall  simply  take  my  courage 
in  both  hands — and  ask  her  to  come  back  again." 

"Of  course  she'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Bailey 
snorted. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  the  other  answered  confidently. 
"She  must  have  had  a  pretty  rotten  time,  poor  girl. 
She  turned  down  the  offer  I  made  through  the  law- 
yers; said  she'd  never  touch  a  penny  of  my  money 
.  .  .  and  goodness  knows,  the  old  man  has  little 
enough  to  play  with !  My  impression  is  that  time 
has  softened  the  blow — there's  no  doubt  my  going 
was  a  dreadful  shock — and  that  if  she  gets  the 
chance  to  live  with  me  as  my  wife,  especially  under 
the  present  changed   conditions,   she'll   take  it." 

General  Bailey  smiled  to  himself.  As  a  keen 
observer  of  life  he  possessed  a  fairly  sound  esti- 
mate of  women.  And  he  certainly  showed  a  shrewd 
opinion  of  his  young  friend's  character. 

"I  see  what  it  is.  Lance,"  he  ventured,  flicking 
the  ash  from  his  cigar  with  a  quiet  movement  of 
his  little  finger.  "During  the  time  you  have  boxed 
yourself  up  here  alone  you've  given  yourself  up  to 
thinking  about  your  wife;  and  you  are  deluding 
yourself  into  imagining  you  made  a  colossal  mis- 
take, which  can  now  be  put  right  by  the  stroke  of 
a  pen.  You  like  a  man  to  have  the  courage  of  his 
own  opinions,  don't  you?" 

Lance  looked  uneasy. 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  297 

"Of  course ;  I  value  yours  very  highly,  General." 

*^ery  well,  then.  I'll  be  quite  candid,  because  I 
believe  it  will  help  you  over  a  great  difficulty.  I 
advised  you  to  break  your  engagement  to  a  col- 
oured girl.  However,  you  took  the  fatal  step,  mar- 
ried her  and  then  broke  away  when  it  was  too  late. 
Now  the  remembrance  of  that  is  bothering  you 
— and  you  seem  to  think  you  have  only  to  write  to 
her,  and  she  will  consent  to  pick  up  the  broken 
threads  again." 

"Something  tells  me  I  could  be  very  happy  with 
her,"  he  muttered.  "I  know  I  did  wrong  .  .  .  and 
that's  why  I'm  not  enjoying  this  fine  inheritance.  I 
really  did  love  her  in  a  funny  sort  of  way — only  I 
allowed  myself  to  be  influenced  when  I  oughtn't 
to  have  been.  My  idea  is  either  to  go  out  or  to 
send  and  ask  her  to  rejoin  me." 

"Both  of  which  courses  are  doomed  to  failure,'^ 
replied  Bailey  sagely.  "You  can't  right  this  parti- 
cular sort  of  wrong  in  that  way.  She  knows  you 
had  to  choose  between  her  and  money — and  money 
won.  Very  well !  Her  answer,  in  so  many  words, 
would  be,  'YcfU  made  your  decision ;  get  on  with  it.' 
And  get  on  with  it  you  must." 

The  troubled  look  in  Railsford's  eyes  was  deep- 
ening. He  had  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  un- 
burden himself  of  the  load  of  misery  and  regret 
which  lay  so  heavily  on  his  soul;  now  that  the 
chance  had  come,  the  best  advice  his  friend  could 
give  him  was  to  make  up  his  mind  to  abide  by  the 
consequences  of  his  sin. 


298        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

He  turned  sharply  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his 
lined  face  tragically  sad.  But  in  his  voice  was  a 
note  of  eager,  passionate  wistfulness. 

"I'd  give  anything  to  get  her  back!"  he  said 
breathlessly.  "You  don't  know  the  hell  of  torture 
I've  been  through  in  this  great  desolate  place. 
I've  no  companions,  no  interests.  Money  means 
nothing  to  me.  I've  lost  all  pleasure  in  spend- 
ing on  myself.  My  mother  has  failed  me.  I'm 
alone  .  .  .  alone  .  .  .  and  in  all  the  world  no  one 
cares  what  becomes  of  me." 

Bailey  tapped  the  toe  of  his  patent  leather  shoe 
irritably  against  the  fender  rail. 

"Tut!  tut!  Lance,  you're  not  a  child.  You  did 
what  you  did  of  your  own  free  will.  The  price  is 
— ^you  are  separated  from  your  wife.  The  girl 
who  will  refuse  a  monetary  consideration  when 
she  is  hard  pressed  is  not  the  sort  to  let  any  man 
play  bat  and  shuttlecock  with  her  heart.  If  you 
want  to  make  some  amends,  try  a  roundabout 
method  of  making  provision  for  her;  but,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  court  a  rebuff  by  trying  to  call 
aji  impossible  truce.  You're  still  y()ung,  and  very 
impressionable.  In  time  you'll  learn  to  forget  all 
about  her,  and  then  ..." 

"I  shall  never  forget,"  he  replied,  turning  away. 
"Conscience  won't  allow  a  fellow  to  forget  some 
things.  Sooner  or  later  they  come  home  to  roost. 
However,  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  it — to- 
night, at  any  rate.  What  do  you  say  to  playing  me 
a  hundred  up?" 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  299 

They  adjourned  to  the  billiards-room  and  stayed 
to  a  late  hour,  A  little  before  midnight  Lance 
showed  Bailey  to  his  room;  then,  turning  quietly 
away,  he  went  down  to  the  library  and  seated  him- 
self at  his  desk.  The  deep  silence  into  which  the 
house  had  sunk  was  an  aid  to  his  thoughts.  He 
wrote  feverishly,  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
...  a  letter  full  of  weariness  and  bitter  regrets, 
a  plea  to  be  forgiven,  and  to  be  allowed  to  return 
again.  Not  kriowing  where  to  find  Saada,  he 
addressed  it  to  her  at  her  father's  house  in  Tunis, 
and  posting  it  in  the  box  in  the  hall,  crept  wearily 
up  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XX 

god's  gift 

IN  the  service  of  Muhammed  Bey — kind  of 
heart  and  always  courteous — Saada  found  a 
happiness  she  never  dared  hope  for.  The 
rich,  middle-aged  merchant  became  almost  a 
second  foster-father.  With  his  two  young  wives, 
Nakhla  and  Zadia,  eagerly  seconding  his  endeav- 
ours, he  set  himself  to  make  her  happy  and  comfort- 
able in  her  new  surroundings.  From  Monday  to 
Friday  she  worked  in  his  large  store  behind  the 
Souk-el-Attarine,  spending  the  week-end  at  his 
palatial  out-town  residence  in  beautiful  Hammam- 
el-Lif.  Here,  on  the  sun-kissed  shores  of  the  Gulf 
of  Tunis,  beneath  the  fir-clad  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain— a  spot  delightfully  immortalized  in  Flau- 
bert's "Salambo,"  the  book  which  Theodore  Snitch 
was  always  raving  about — Saada  found  pleasant 
distractions  from  the  sadness  which  her  husband's 
Cruelty  had  flung  across  her  life  .  .  .  through  the 
summer  days,  bathing  in  the  blue  waters  of  the 
bay,  and  long  walks  in  the  welcome  forest  glade. 
There  was  a  deal  of  gaiety,  too,  in  the  luxurious 
gardens  of  the  Casino,  and  frequent  excursions  by 
car  and  carriage  to  such  delightful  spots  as  Ham- 
mamet  and  Ksar-er-Choula,  where  for  long  hours 

300 


GOD'S  GIFT  301 

together  she  would  interest  herself  wandering 
alone  through  the  wonderful  Roman  ruins. 

At  such  times  her  thoughts  were  often  with 
John,  still  working  splendidly  at  his  arduous  dut- 
ies in  the  sun-baked  sands  of  Beni  el  Ourit. 
Snitch  wrote  regularly  once  a  month  telling  of  the 
many  amazing  discoveries,  and  of  John's  progress. 
He  had  made,  and  saved,  a  good  deal  of  money ;  no 
longer  did  he  shrink  from  his  fellows  under  an 
alien  name.  To  all  the  world  hfe  was  henceforth- 
John  Forrester,  the  man  who  had  made  good. 

Saada  was  delighted  with  the  news.  John  she 
knew,  would  glory  in  her  freedom  from  care,  even 
as  she  rejoiced  in  his  emancipation. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  year  the  fine  weather, 
which  had  held  up  since  the  previous  March,  broke 
suddenly,  and  the  season  of  storms,  accompanied 
by  fierce  downpours  of  rain,  set  in.  For  days  to- 
gether, the  Marsa  Hill  and  the  craggy  summit  of 
the  Djebel-Bou-Kornein  were  blotted  out  by  rolling 
banks  of  mist,  driving  in  from  the  sea.  The  wind 
swung  round  to  the  north,  gathering  force  day  by 
day,  until  the  seas  were  breaking  upon  the  harbour- 
works  at  La  Golette  with  a  force  which  threatened 
to  sweep  them  away.  A  bitter  cold  succeeded  the 
balmy  warmth  of  clear,  sunshiny  days ;  the  streets, 
winnowed  by  icy  blasts  which  drove  to  shelter  the 
native  population,  were  desolate  and  deserted.  In 
the  last  forty  years  Tunis  had  known  no  such  ex- 
perience. Business  was  almost  at  a  standstill;  so 
much  so  that  Muhammed  Bey  decided  to  shut  down 


302        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

for  two  months  and  remove  with  his  family  to 
Biskra,  where  the  sun  always  shines.  Saada  was 
to  go  too,  and  was  in  the  throes  of  clearing  up  her 
office  work  when  an  interruption  occurred  to 
change  her  plans.  Into  her  small  room,  behind 
the  spacious,  low-ceilinged  apartment  given  over 
to  the  display  of  rich  hangings  and  valuable  car- 
pets, stepped  Yakoub,  holding  a  letter. 

"For  you,  m'am,"  he  said,  bowing  respectfully. 
"I  apologizes  for  de  fat  delay,  but  it  hab  been  all 
roun'  dis  yeah  town  after  bein'  taken  to  the  Rue 
Sidi  Abdallah." 

Saada  went  a  little  white  when  she  recognized 
Lance's  handwriting.  The  past  had  been  buried  so 
long  and  so  effectively  that  she  had  hoped  nothing 
would  ever  revive  it.  Yet  in  a  moment  everything 
was  brought  back  by  the  sincerity  breathed  in 
every  line  of  her  husband's  pitiful  appeal.  He  had 
written : 

"No  words  of  mine  can  ever  describe  the  torment  of 
suffering  into  which  my  cruelty  to  you  has  plunged  me. 
At  last  I  have  learned  the  great  lesson  to  which  I  so 
blindly  shut  my  eyes — that  in  all  the  world  love  is  the 
only  prize  worth  striving  for.  Your  love  for  me  I 
killed  long  ago ;  but  mine  for  you  still  lives,  though  God 
knows,  often  enough,  in  the  selfishness  of  my  heart,  I 
tried  to  crush  it  out  to  make  room  for  other  and  less 
worthy  interests.  One  by  one,  all  have  failed,  and 
weakly  I  fall  back  on  the  only  hope  left  to  me  .  .  .  that 
you,  dear,  whom  I  so  cruelly  wronged,  will  try  to  find 
it  in  your  soul  to  forgive  and  forget.     More  I  dare  not 


GOD'S  GIFT  303 

ask — but  to  be  with  you  once  again,  just  for  an  hour,  to 
look  upon  your  sweet  face,  to  gather  perhaps  a  single 
word  of  hope  from  your  lips  and  to  see  the  light  of  com- 
passion in  your  eyes.  Grant  me  this,  though  you  no 
longer  love  me ;  give  me  the  chance  to  work  out  my  sal- 
vation .  .  .  and  at  the  end  let  me  place  in  your  dear 
hands  all  I  have  worth  offering,  a  broken  but  repentant 
heart. 

"I  send  this  from  Marseilles,  by  the  Transatlantique 
Dim  D'Aumale,  which  is  just  leaving,  but  too  full  to 
give  me  accommodation,  so  I  shall  cross  by  the  Naviga- 
tion Mixte  steamer,  the  Alphonse  Daudet,  on  Thursday. 
Arrived  at  Tunis,  I  shall  at  once  set  inquiries  on  foot 
to  trace  you.  ..." 

Saada  turned  to  Yakoub  with  a  weary  smile. 

"Thank  you ;  there  is  no  answer,"  she  said. 

When  the  man  had  gone,  Saada  put  on  her  coat 
and  went  out.  Usually  she  lunched  at  a  cafe  in  the 
Avenue  de  France,  a  small  place  kept  by  an  Eng- 
lishwoman, at  this  season  of  the  year  almost  de- 
serted. Here  she  could  be  alone  to  face  the  stupen- 
dous shock  which  Lance's  letter  had  caused.  Of 
course  he  would  find  her  quite  easily;  long  since 
the  details  of  her  luckless  marriage  had  become 
common  property  in  Tunis. 

Would  it  be  wiser  to  meet  him  or  to  go  away? 
She  knew  that  her  heart  was  dead,  that  long  since 
all  affection  for  him  had  been  consumed,  leaving 
nothing  but  the  cold  ashes  of  contempt  behind. 
Useless  for  both  of  them  to  try  to  revive  a  past 
better  forgotten. 


304        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

She  sat  down  in  the  deserted  room,  waiting  for 
Mrs.  Mason  to  appear.  In  the  wide  street  with- 
out, the  double  line  of  plane  trees,  stripped  bare  by 
the  gale,  which  now  had  raged  with  unabating  fury 
more  than  a  week,  waved  bone-like  limbs  to  the 
grey  sky,  from  which  thrashed  down  a  ceaseless 
flood  of  rain.  Deeper  than  the  dull  roar  of  the 
wind  was  the  far-off  boom  of  the  giant  breakers 
careering  in  headlong  fury  across  the  lake  and 
hurling  themselves  with  shattering  force  upon  the 
concrete  works  of  the  harbour. 

"Mrs.  Railsford,  you've  heard  the  dreadful 
news?" 

Saada  awoke  from  a  depressed  reverie  to  see  the 
lady  proprietor  standing  in  the  curtained  doorway. 
In  her  hand  she  carried  a  special  edition  of  the 
Depeche  Tunisien. 

"One  of  the  big  steamers  is  on  fire  at  sea.  She 
was  to  have  arrived  early  this  morning.  You  can 
read  what  little  news  there  is  while  I  get  your  lunch 
ready.  There  you  are  .  .  .  the  Alphonse  DaUr 
det — ablaze  from  stem  to  stem  twenty  miles  north- 
east of  Ras  el  Abiad ;  my  husband  thinks  they'll  try 
to  beach  her  at  Porto  Farina." 

Saada  had  risen,  a  look  of  terror  on  her  face. 

"My  husband  is  on  the  Alphonse  Daudet,"  she 
said  swiftly.  "I  had  a  letter  from  him  thia 
morning." 

Mrs.  Mason  became  instantly  sympathetic. 

"Then  you'd  better  get  down  to  the  harbour. 
They'll  have  news  at  the  company's  office  on  the 


GOD'S  GIFT  305 

quayside.  At  ten  o'clock  the  ship's  wireless  was 
still  working.  .  .  ." 

Saada  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  turned  into 
the  full  welter  of  the  storm.  In  a  moment  it 
seemed  the  city  had  wakened  to  life,  for  dense 
crowds  of  natives  and  Europeans  were  streaming 
from  the  Avenue  de  Paris,  the  Avenue  de  Carthage, 
and  through  the  Port  de  France,  all  joining  in  the 
Avenue  Jules  Ferry. 

A  motor-ambulance  turned  the  corner  of  the 
Avenue  de  la  Eepublique  and  made  off  in  the 
direction  of  Melassine.  Saada  heard  some  one 
whisper  the  words  "Civil  Hospital!"  and  a  mo- 
ment later  understood,  for  between  a  number  of 
mounted  gendarmes  shrouded  forms  on  stretchers 
were  being  hurried  away. 

Her  steps  quickened  to  a  run  past  the  custom 
house  sheds.  The  Basin  Principal  was  lined  a 
score  deep,  many  shouting  and  gesticulating  wildly 
as  small  boats  breasted  the  immense  waves,  only  to 
vanish  a  second  later  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

She  heard  a  young  American  talking  to  an 
English  chemist. 

^"The  Alphonse  Daudet  has  been  burned  to  the 
water's  edge.  They  tried  to  beach  her  .  .  .  but 
failed  .  . .  the  few  survivors  put  off  in  the  boats .  . . 
a  good  many  have  been  saved  .  .  .  explosion  ..." 

She  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  shouldered  her 
way  through  the  press  to  the  company's  office  on 
the  quay.     The  harassed  clerk  could  tell  her  little. 

"I  am  sorry,  madam,  but  we  have  no  accurate 


306        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

details  yet.  We  believe  a  large  number  of  lives 
have  unfortunately  been  lost.  The  survivors  are 
now  coming  in.  Some  of  them  are  being  taken  to 
the  Tunisia  Palace  Hotel.  You  might  go  there 
first.  Here  is  a  list  of  those  already  sent  to  the 
Civil  Hospital." 

Lance's  name  was  not  among  them.  Saada 
turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  In  the  hour  of  suffer- 
ing all  the  bitterness  of  the  past  had  gone.  She 
saw  mangled,  lifeless  figures  lifted  from  the 
smashed  boats  .  .  .  scanned  each  swollen,  disfig- 
ured face,  and  turning  her  back  on  the  dreadful 
scene,  hastened  to  the  Tunisia  Palace. 

In  the  vestibule  a  ship's  doctor  stood,  his  face 
blackened  and  his  clothes  sodden. 

"You  have  come  off  the  Alphonse  Daudetf"  she 
ventured  breathlessly. 

He  bowed  politely. 

"I  am  one  of  the  fortunate  survivors,  madam. 
Had  you  a  friend  on  board?" 

"Yes — Mr.  Lance  Railsford,"  she  explained. 

He  looked  confused,  and  half  turned  away. 

"Monsieur  Railsford  is  here.  He  has  just  been 
brought  in.  You  must  be  brave,  madam;  there 
is  no  hope  of  his  recovery."  She  moved  at  his  side 
mechanically  as  he  mounted  the  stairs.  "It  was 
an  act  of  supreme  courage,  madam,  such  as  one 
might  expect  from  the  brave  English.  He 
returned  to  the  vessel  when  he  might  have  saved 
himself — to    bring    off    a    Lascar    fireman.    Mon 


GOD'S  GIFT  307 

Dieu!  it  was  madness,  but  yer'  grand  .  .  .  the 
ship  was  blazing  fore  and  aft  .  .  .  but  for  a  poor 
black  man  this  rioble  fellow  gave  his  life.  You 
had  better  not  see  him  yet." 

She  raised  her  face,  radiant  with  a  calm  courage 
.  .  .  her  eyes  full  of  appeal.  , 

"Please  take  me  to  him :  he  is  my  husband." 

In  the  vestibule  below  fresh  cases  were  being 
brought  in.  French  and  native  doctors  moved 
silently  to  and  fro.  Saada  went  into  the  big 
room.  On  the  tables  and  settees  bandaged  men 
and  horribly  burned  women  writhed  in  agony. 
Her  glance  swept  the  terrible  picture  .  .  .  she 
saw  Lance,  stripped  to  the  waist,  supported  by 
two  doctors.  The  lacerated  body  was  dark  with 
the  scorch  of  flame  and  smoke.  She  went  to  him 
and  lifted  his  lifeless  hand. 

"It  is  his  wife,"  her  companion  said  .  .  .  and 
they  moved  aside. 

"Lance !"  she  called.  A  shudder  passed  through 
the  discoloured  face;  the  fixed,  awful  eyes  made  a 
desperate  effort  to  focus.  .  .  .  For  an  instant  her 
sobbing  cry  must  have  reached  him,  for  a  glimmer 
of  consciousness  lit  the  sightless  orbs,  but  died 
away  as  the  light  fades  from  the  electric  wires  in, 
a  bulb  that  has  been  snapped  out. 

"Lance,  I  have  come  to  you!"  she  cried  again, 
and  dropping  on  her  knees,  wound  both  her  arms 
about  him  and  drew  the  drooping  head  down  to 
her  breast. 


308        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

Light  was  failing,  but  in  some  dim  fashion  he 
seemed  to  understand,  for  she  caught  the  whisper 
of  his  last  breath. 

"To  forgive?"  he  asked. 

Out  of  the  unfathomable  wells  of  her  great 
heart  she  gave  her  answer, 

^TTes,  dear — to  forgive  and  forget." 

His  lip  lifted  in  a  fleeting  tortured  smile  .  .  . 
brief,  ineffable  .  .  .  the  happiness  of  their  last 
meeting  .  .  .  and  with  his  disfigured  face  hid  upon 
her  bosom,  his  tired  life  passed  out  into  the  light  of 
a  fuller  and  brighter  day. 

John  and  Saada  stood  together  on  a  little  ridge 
raised  by  the  desert  winds,  looking  out  over  track- 
less miles  of  sand,  and  in  the  eyes  of  both  was  the 
light  of  a  great  happiness.  A  year  had  passed 
since  Saada's  weary  feet  had  followed  Lance  Rails- 
ford  to  his  last  resting-place  in  the  little  Protestant 
cemetery  behind  the  Bab  Carthagina  of  Tunis. 

"You  think  you  will  be  content  to  spend  your 
honeymoon  with  me  in  the  desert?"  Forrester 
asked,  looking  down  on  the  radiant,  smiling  face. 

"Where  else,  dear?"  Saada  answered.  "We  shall 
love  the  sun  and  the  deep  silences."' 

"And  the  nearness  of  your  own  people." 

"The  land  which  my  foster-father  loved,"  she 
said  softly.  "At  least  ...  I  shall  always  call  him 
my  father.     John  ...  I  haven't  yet  told  you." 

"Told  me  what,  darling?"  he  asked,  slipping  his 
arm  about  her  slim  waist.     "What  is  there  to  tell? 


GOD'S  GIFT  309 

Surely  my  little  Arab  wife  has  no  secrets  from  her 
husband?" 

She  laughed  softly,  and  placed  her  finger  on  his 
cheek. 

"Yes,  John  dear  ...  I  want  to  make  a  little 
confession."  She  hid  her  flaming  face  against  his 
broad  shoulder.  "You  heard  what  I  said — a  mo- 
ment ago — about  my  foster-father?" 

"You've  set  me  wondering,  little  woman." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  while  his  hand  caressed 
her  dark  hair. 

"I  kept  the  secret  .  .  .  for  you  .  .  .  even  as  I 
kept  it  for  him — who  is  gone  ...  as  a  very  pre- 
cious wedding-present.  He  was  too  late.  Will 
you  accept  it,  dear,  my  first  and  greatest  gift  to 
you?" 

She  placed  a  little  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 
He  stared,  bewildered. 

"What  are  they,  sweetheart?" 

The  laugh  she  gave  was  lost  under  the  arch  of 
the  pulsing  sky. 

"I  have  told  you  .  .  .  my  greatest  gift  .  .  .  the 
record  of  my  parentage.  Eead  them,  John  .  .  . 
and  you  will  understand.  I'm  no  longer  your  Arab 
wife,  but  English  through  and  through.  Oh,  I 
knew  you  would  be  surprised !" 

He  turned  the  pages  slowly  over,  and  in  a  little 
while  reached  out  and  drew  her  gently  to  him 
again. 

"A  wonderful  present,  little  Saada  .  .  .  but  not 
the  greatest  gift  at  all.     Your  love,  which  lifted 


310       A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SANDS 

me  out  of  the  dark  places  and  brought  me  into  the 
light,  is  far,  far  greater.  See!  the  sun  is  setting. 
iWe  must  get  back  to  be  ready  at  dawn  to  start  on 
our  desert  honeymoon." 


THE  END 


University  of  Caiifomia 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  iitirary 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


01.  OCT  1 7  199^ ; 


I-  \ 


im&,fS.l^":s^^ 


A     000  128  241     7 


